


Time Of My Life

by fiveainley_ohmy



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dirty Dancing Fusion, Bisexual John, F/F, Gay/Demi Sherlock, M/M, Multi, Sherlock Holmes Teaches John Watson to Dance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-11
Updated: 2016-04-07
Packaged: 2018-05-19 13:27:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 29,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5968891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fiveainley_ohmy/pseuds/fiveainley_ohmy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson takes his alcoholic sister to a summer camp in attempt to rehabilitate her. He didn't expect to fall in love with the dance instructor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Be My Baby

Harriet's sedan pulled into the parking space in front of the camp, and the car stopped.

Harry slid out of the passenger seat and climbed out of the car, putting on her sunglasses to block her eyes from the bright sunlight. "Ugh. Nature," she said, looking around.

"That is the point of camping," said her brother, John, exiting the driver's side. "Besides, you'll probably be inside or at the pool most of the time anyway."

Harry looked at him skeptically as John began unloading their bags. "Remind me why we're doing this again," she said, crossing her arms.

"Because Mike Stamford recommended this place. He and his wife went and they loved it. Besides...you need to get away from...things."

"By things, you mean Clara, and the divorce?"

"No, by things, I meant _booze_." John deposited Harry's duffel into her arms, and Harry gave an inelegant _umph_. "So chin up, and let's have some fun," said John firmly, shutting the trunk.

"Aye, aye, Cap'n," said Harry mockingly, hoisting her bag and waddling toward the front office.

Camp Holmes had been established many years ago and was run by a well off family that was vaguely involved in the government. John's sister had gotten back into heavy drinking when she was getting divorced from her (ex, now) wife. The camp, though it wasn't its purpose, had rehabilitated many an addict, and after reading up on it, John had thought it the perfect place to help Harry.

A man with pre-maturely silvery grey hair was at the front desk in the administration building. He looked up when John and Harry came in. "Hello," he said to them amiably. "Campers?"

"Yes," said John. "Watson and Watson."

"Right." The man typed something on his computer and looked up. "Here you are. John and Harriet, double cabin. I'll show you to your quarters. I'm Greg, by the way. Can I take your bag, ma'am?"

"No, thanks, I've got it."

"Right. This way."

Greg led them to a golf cart outside and drove them down to the cabin. "It's nice looking here," John commented.

"Yeah. Really nice spot. If you like trees, that is," Greg replied.

"Where's the pool?" said Harry.

"Over thattaways. It's not hard to find. There's the dining hall, arts and craft, dance studio..."

"They have a dance studio?" said John.

"Oh yeah. The dance instructor's great. Bit of a dick, but very talented."

They pulled up to cabin 13. "Here you are," said Greg. "Sure you don't need any help?"

"We're fine," said John. "Thanks, mate."

"No problem. See you around, Mr. Watson."

"Actually, it's "Doctor", but please, call me John." John smiled at him.

"John. Got it. Well, see ya."

As Greg drove away, Harry nudged him. "Geez, Johnny, I know you're bi, and I'm glad you're finally out of the closet, but do you have to flirt with _everyone_?"

"Oi, that's biphobic stereotyping. And I wasn't flirting."

"Suuuure you weren't." Harry sneezed on her shoulder as they carried their bags inside. "Ugh. I can already feel my allergies kicking up. Pass me the antihistamine, would you?"

John tossed her a bottle. "Non-drowsy."

"Hmm." Harry tossed back a pill. "Having a doctor for a brother has its benefits after all."

"Ha ha." John threw a pillow at her face. "Wanna go check out the campgrounds after we unpack?"

"Sure!" Harry plopped her duffel on her cot. "There, unpacked. Let's go."

John rolled his eyes, but decided to let it go. "Fine."

* * *

The campground was rustically beautiful yet primly manicured. It looked like a Norman Rockwell painting. The facilities were teeming with patrons, flitting from one activity to another.

"Look, John," said Harry, pointing to a gazebo.

John looked up to see a group of dancing couples, led by a pleasant looking woman with long, light brown hair. "That looks like fun," John admitted.

"Wanna join in?"

"Nah. Not right now. I want to go shoot archery. C'mon."

John and Harry spent the rest of the day exploring the camp. "Admit it, Harry. This place isn't so bad," John said.

"It'd be better with an open bar."

"Harry..."

"Yeah, yeah, I know. I've been sober for three days. For me, that's character development. I'm starving. Want to go get dinner?"

"Sounds good."

The dining hall served a variety of good, homey foods. Harry settled down with pasta, and John had a burger. "John," muttered Harry, elbowing her brother. "Look over _there_."

John looked up, then followed Harry's gaze across the room. "Oh, wow..."

John spotted the female dance instructor from before. She was wearing a zesty red dress. But it was obvious that the man she was talking to was Harry's focus. He was tall, bony, limber, with a messy halo of brunette curls and striking cheekbones. His clothes were all black, and tight enough to leave little to the imagination.

John whistled. "Those branches may be slender, but I'd climb that tree anyday."

Harry nodded in agreement. "If I liked men..."

Suddenly, the room dimmed, and only the center of the floor was spotlighted. The man John and Harry had been studying and the female dance instructor took hands and walked onto the dance floor. Music began, a spicy dance beat, and the man and woman assumed a dance position, then began moving to the music.

"Oh. _That's_ the dance instructor," said John, looking at the man.

The couple moved with great poise and elegance. They floated around the dance floor as if skating on ice. Everyone was watching them in awe. Several people got up to dance as well, but stayed on the sidelines, letting the stars take center stage.

"They're really good," said Harry.

"I'll say!" John agreed.

John was mesmerized by the way they moved their hips. Their bodies swung and rolled and twisted about so flawlessly. And the way they managed to keep those smiles on their faces, like they were perfectly at peace with their movements. John knew if that were him, he'd be huffing and puffing after a minute. And he wouldn't be nearly as coordinated.

"Holy hell, John. Those _legs_."

"I know. He's fantastic!"

"I meant the girl."

"Oh." John and Harry looked at each other and laughed at themselves. "We are so gay," said Harry, chortling.

The dancing woman raised her leg all the way, to where her lower limbs were at a 180 degree angle with each other. Then she curled backward, her head danging half a foot from the floor, and her back perfectly arched. The man caught and supported her. Then she got back up, and continued dancing with the man.

They spun and twisted all about, and the entire room was watching with rapt attention. Then, the woman turned and ran halfway across the room. The man grinned, tensing, as if preparing for something to happen.

"Oh look! It's the big finish!" said Harry excitedly.

The woman came running to her partner, then, just before she reached him, jumped into the air. The man caught her up and held her aloft for a moment, the woman's body posed and sharp. The man dipped her briefly, then righted her. The song ended, and the room applauded approvingly as the dancers bowed.

"Bravo! Brava!" Harry cheered, standing up to clap. She plopped back down in her seat. "Gee, Johnny Boy, you think you and me could learn how to do that?"

John laughed derisively. "Not bloody likely! I can do the robot, that's about it."

"More water, sir?" A waiter had appeared at John's elbow. He had sallow skin, greasy black hair, and a smile that unnerved John for some reason.

"Er...yeah." John let the waiter refill his glass. The waiter nodded and walked away.

After he'd gone, Harry leaned over and murmured to John, "was it just me, or did he seem really creepy?"

"Yeah. His eyes...something about them," said John. "Listen, I'll be right back."

"Where're you going?" Harry said as John got up.

"Getting some air."

John made for the door, but bumped into someone on the way out. "Oh, excuse me."

"Not at all," said the man. He was wearing a nice suit, complete with violet waistcoat and matching pocket handkerchief. "I don't remember seeing you around here," he commented.

"Oh no, I - well, my sister and I, I mean - just arrived here today. I'm John Watson."

"Mycroft Holmes," said the man, accepting his handshake.

"'Holmes'? As in-"

"Yes, the camp belongs to my family. I'm the general manager of operations. Basically, I am the camp." Mycroft's little smile seemed to imply that he was joking - mostly.

"It's a lovely place," John said. "I think my sister's really going to like it here."

"I truly hope so. Do let me know if there's anything I can do for you, Mr. Watson."

"Actually, it's 'Doctor'. And thank you." John smiled quickly and excused himself.

The sky outside was a inky blue blanket of stars above the tree tops. John, standing on the elevated porch, leaned on the banister and took a moment to soak in the sight. Stars were so hard to see in London, with all the smog and city lights. Then, as he looked out over the campground, he saw a figure walking along the path, arms laden with watermelons. It was Greg.

"Greg! Oi!" John lighted down the steps and jogged over to the man. "Let me help you with those."

"Aw, no, I couldn't let you do that-"

"It's alright-"

"You're a guest-"

"Please, let me." John took one of the watermelons from his arms.

Greg grinned. "Thanks, mate. That's a lot better, actually."

"Where are we going with these?" John asked him.

"Oh! Right. Er...this way." Greg began walking down the path again, and John followed after him.

They came to a side building that was out of the way, and Greg stopped at a door marked "Staff Only: Guests Please Keep Out". "In here?" John said. He could hear faint music coming from the inside.

"Er...yeah. I guess you can...well. Alright. But...this is sort of secret," said Greg, looking at John uncomfortably. "You can't tell anyone what we're doing in here, alright?"

John laughed nervously. "S'not illegal, is it?"

"Well, no, no, it's just...the senior staff wouldn't exactly approve," said Greg. "Alright. Come in." He knocked his elbow against the door, and after a second, it opened.

* * *

John's eyes were wide at the sight.

The junior staff members were all clustered together...grinding.

Twenty five or so bodies, all out of their uniforms and dressed scantily for the hot weather outside (and with good reason, as the building didn't seem to be air conditioned), up close and personal, their pelvises in close proximity if not connected altogether, brushing and rubbing against each other. Females and males alike were moving their hips suggestively, sensually, to the sound of burlesque-ish rock music.

Greg turned to grin sheepishly at John. "Yeah. It's what they do."

"Wow...but...why? Can't they just go dance at the club?" John asked, elbowing his way through the crowd.

"They like it here. All their friends are here, there's no IDs required, no loud dubstep or flashing strobe lights. Over here."

John followed Greg over to a table where refreshments were laid out. A woman was standing by the punch bowl, pouring herself a cup. "'Lo, Sally," said Greg brightly.

"Greg." Sally nodded to John. "Who is this then?"

"I was helping Greg carry the watermelons," said John.

"He's a guest. Don't worry, he's alright," Greg told Sally.

Sally eyed John up and down suspiciously. "Hmm."

"Ugh, have you seen him tonight?" said another guy, coming up to the table, his nose wrinkled in distaste. "He's so smug because him and Molly got a standing ovation at the big house. Jim told me all about it. God, he's going to be insufferable."

"He doesn't care about stuff like that, Anderson," said Greg.

"My arse," Anderson grumbled. "He's a showing off prat is what he is."

"And you, Anderson, are an idiot, and blocking the punch bowl," said a new voice, deep and rich, like melted dark chocolate.

John turned around to find that it was _him_. The dance instructor.

"Sherlock," said Greg. "Surprised you showed up. You don't normally like these parties."

"Correction: I don't like the people who attend these parties. People are boring. Anderson, get out of my way." The dance instructor (Sherlock?) nudged Anderson aside so he could pour himself a glass of punch.

Now that he was so close, John could see him properly. Yes, those cheekbones were quite pronounced. His lips were in the shape of a Cupid's bow, and his irises were pale grey, almost silver, with just a hint of blue - or was it green? They seemed to change color, twinkling like stars. His skin was pale as well, and looked soft, yet there was a hardness about him, like (and John hated using the hackneyed analogy) steel encased in velvet. His clothes were indeed tight fitted, the buttons on the front of his black shirt looking like they were about to pop-

"If you've quite finished staring at me," said Sherlock, taking a sip of his punch, not even bothering to look at John.

John started. "Ah...sorry. That is, I wasn't...I-I mean..."

"Graham, why have you brought one of the guests into the staff area?" Sherlock inquired, looking at Greg.

"It's _Greg_."

"I carried a watermelon," added John brightly.

Sherlock turned his head to look at him dubiously. John could feel the tips of his ears burning with embarrassment. _' I carried a watermelon'?_

"Hello, everyone!" Sherlock's dance partner had appeared, stripped of her snazzy dress and wearing a regular pair of high-waisted jean shorts and an old looking, sleeveless, button up blouse that tied at the bottom.

Greg cleared his throat. "Molly! Hey. Heard you and Sherlock brought the house down over at the dining hall."

"Oh, I'd hardly say that," Molly blushed happily.

"Nonsense," said Sherlock, his whole attitude having turned around at her appearance. He actually smiled and put his arm around her. "Molly, you're a splendid dancer; you should be more proud of yourself."

 _Ah. Girlfriend, then_ , mused John.

"Well, I'd hardly be half the dancer I am if it weren't for you, Sherlock," Molly replied.

"Yeah, 'sides, Sherlock's got enough ego for the pair of you."

"Anderson, don't talk out loud, you lower the IQ of the whole room," said Sherlock placidly.

"The freak doesn't deny it, though," Sally sniped.

Sherlock smirked at her. "Sally, I see you didn't make it back to your cabin last night."

"Oh, someone told you that," Anderson griped.

"No one had to tell me, I could smell it."

"Smell what?"

"Men's deodorant."

"I'm not wearing men's deodorant," said Sally.

"Yes, you are. And so is Anderson, for once."

Everyone was struck dumb, looking from Sally to Anderson in shock.

Sherlock pretended to take a hearty sniff. "Ooh, I think it just vaporized, actually."

Sally turned bright red. Anderson began stuttering. "Sherlock, whatever you're trying to _imply_ -"

"I'm implying nothing," said Sherlock, raising his hands innocently. "Just that Sally was kind enough to stay the night at your cabin. And judging by the state of her knees, I'm guessing she was...cleaning your floors?"

Greg burst into raucous laughter. Molly covered her mouth, hiding a giggle. Sally let out of a noise of humiliation and stomped away. Anderson looked absolutely murderous. "Sherlock Holmes, you bloody wanker-"

"Wait, 'Holmes'?" said John in surprise.

"Yes, my family owns the camp. My brother 'enlisted' me to teach dance here, thought it would keep me out of trouble."

"Mycroft's your brother?"

Sherlock looked at him in surprise. "You know Mycroft?"

"No, not really, we just sort - well, no, literally, _bumped_ into each other in the dining hall."

"Sorry you had to meet  _that_ ," said Sherlock, smirking.

"He wasn't so bad."

"He's a pompous arse who thinks he's always right."

"Oh, must be a family trait."

Sherlock froze at the little jab and looked at him hawkishly. John grinned mischievously. A nearly invisible smile appeared on Sherlock's lips. "Right. Who are you?" he asked.

"I'm John. John Watson."

"Good to meet you, Doctor Watson," said Sherlock, shaking his hand.

John paused. "You knew I was a doctor?"

"Little details that gave it away, if you know what to look for."

"Like what?" John challenged.

Sherlock actually did smile at this. So he _was_ a show off.

"Ah, hey, Molly. Come give us a dance, eh?" Greg grabbed Molly's hand and pulled her into the crowd, leaving John and Sherlock alone together.

John raised an eyebrow suggestively. "Well?"

Sherlock took in a breath. "Well, you're here, for starters. Camp Holmes's tuition fee for a summer is ridiculously high, so you must have money, but your clothes and your shoes are common, inexpensive brands, so you're not wealthy. That logically leaves room for two occupations, lawyer or doctor."

"How do you know I'm not a lawyer?"

"Unlikely. Lawyers generally don't have a sense of humor."

John genuinely laughed at that.

"May I ask: Afghanistan, or Iraq?" Sherlock said.

John was a bit taken off guard. "Afghanistan," he answered.

"Did it hurt? When you were shot in the shoulder?"

"Yes," John said. "And you knew _that_ , how?"

"I had you pegged as military right from the start. Your haircut, the way you hold yourself. When you shook my hand, it confirmed my theory - your face and hands are tanned, but there's no tan above the wrist, so abroad, but not sunbathing. I also noticed a slight hitch in your shoulder, presumably from a war wound. Which means you were invalided home."

John was in awe. "That is...absolutely right. That was amazing."

It was Sherlock's turn to be surprised. "That's not what people normally say."

"What do they normally say?"

"Fuck off."

The two men shared a laugh. "Is that why you're here?" Sherlock asked. "To recuperate? Wait. No. That's not it. You wouldn't waste money on an extravagance like this for yourself. Let me guess-here with a family member who's suffered some recent discomfort? Being left by a lover, perhaps?"

"Okay, now that's just scary," said John. "Yes, I'm here with my sister, Harriet. She and her wife recently got divorced. Harry's a drinker. I brought her here to detox on a recommendation from a friend."

"Camp Holmes does seem to attract the addicts," Sherlock commented.

"Does it?"

"Oh, yes. Like these people here." Sherlock gestured to the people dancing on each other. "Slaves to their own carnal passions."

"I kinda like it," said John, grinning at the promiscuity. "Besides, you can't tell me making the ol' beast with two backs isn't fun."

Sherlock pursed his lips together and looked away.

"Sherlock? Oh come on. You...well, you must. Don't you?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Not all of us are controlled by the whims of our genitalia, Dr. Watson."

"John, please. And don't you and Molly ever..."

"What? Oh, no, Molly and I aren't together."

"But...you _dance_ together."

"So?"

"Oh. Right. Okay. So... _do_ you have a girlfriend?"

"Girlfriends...not really my area."

 _Oh, God above, please say it's so._ "So...what about a boyfriend?"

Sherlock stared straight at him.

John smiled. "Which is fine by the way."

"I know it's fine. You just told me your sister is queer and I deduced your sexuality from the way you were deliberately scrutinizing Greg and Sally."

"Yeah, alright, I'm bisexual."

"Exactly. So I know it's fine."

Then there was silence.

"So...you haven't got a boyfriend."

Sherlock sighed. " _No_."

"So, you're single, then. Or dating someone non-binary."

"I'm not dating anyone."

"So single."

"Is there a point to this?"

"Come on, I think I'm being pretty obvious."

"Fine. Yes, I'm single. Yes, you're attractive, but no, I'm not interested in a summer romance, thank you."

"Ouch. You really know how to cut a man, don't you?"

"That wasn't my intention."

"I'm really very hurt," said John, pouting, putting a hand to his heart. "I think it's gonna take a dance to cure this heartache. Trust me, I'm a Doctor, I know about these things."

"That was the _worst_ pick up line I've ever heard in my entire existence on this planet."

"Oh come on, _Sher-lock_." John gazed at him through his eyelashes and said his name like it was pure sex. "One dance?"

"For God's sake, can't you find someone else? I'm sure Sally'd be happy to-"

"No, I'm sorry, but you've ruined me, Sherlock Holmes. I can't be satisfied with anyone else now. How does one go back to hamburger meat after tasting filet mignon?"

"Is that all I am to you? A piece of meat?"

"I could sure eat you up." John winked.

Sherlock gave in. "Fine. _One_ dance. That's all."

"That's all I need." John took Sherlock's hand and coaxed him out into the crowd.

John placed his hands on Sherlock's hips. Sherlock hunched his bony frame slightly, and John placed one his feet in between Sherlock's, settling over Sherlock's slightly bent knee and began gently rolling his pelvis to the music. Sherlock reluctantly moved with him.

"I don't mean to be a creep, you know," John murmured apologetically.

"Said the man currently humping my thigh."

"You're humping mine too."

"Yes, but you're actually trying to be sexual."

"Because you don't have to try."

Sherlock exhaled, fondly exasperated. By this time, Sherlock's hands were on John's waist, and John had propped his arms on Sherlock's shoulders. Sherlock looked at him and said, "For the record, you're not a creep. In all honestly, I'm flattered at your attention. I'm simply not interested in that kind of a relationship at this time."

"'It's not you, it's me', eh? Story of my life. Still...I'd wait till you were interested if I knew I had a chance." John's eyes glittered flirtatiously.

"You're an idiot."

John grinned wickedly. " _I'm feeling kinda strange, 'cause of all the things you say. Yeah, I know, too good to believe_."

"Oh no," said Sherlock.

" _This probably won't work, 'cause you're kind of a jerk_." John gleefully poked Sherlock. " _And for sure you're way too cool for me. 'Cause I'm a fool for loooove_ -"

"Alright, that's it. We're done here." Sherlock pulled back and sauntered away.

"Oh come on! Sherlock!"


	2. Big Girls Don't Cry

"Where the hell have _you_ been???" Harry said as John let himself in their cabin. She was already in her pajamas and under the covers. "You missed dessert. I had to walk back to the cabin in the dark all by myself."

"Sorry," said John. "I got...distracted."

"By what?"

John smiled enigmatically at her as he pulled his pajamas and toiletries from his duffel. "Carrying watermelons," he answered.

"And what the hell is that supposed to mean?!" Harry's question went unanswered as John locked himself in the bathroom.

John stripped and turned on the shower. He got under the warm stream of water and closed his eyes, letting the dirt, sweat, and grime of the day wash away from his skin.

The vision of Sherlock's curious grey eyes filled his mind's eye.

John sighed.

He envisioned the rest of him, too. The cheekbones, his lips...his fine, delicate hands when they were resting his hips...

John's blood was running faster now...

He imagined what could be lying under those tight, tight clothes. Sherlock's body would be pale, ivory; slender, but fit...his arsecheeks so supple and firm-

"N _YAAH_!" John screeched as all of a sudden, the water turned frigid. "Harry! Did you use up all the fucking hot water?!"

"Serves you right," Harry called sleepily from the other room.

Grumbling, John turned off the water, toweled off, slipped into his pajamas, brushed his teeth, and went to bed.

* * *

The next morning at breakfast, Harry had to literally grab John's ear. "OWW! Harry!" John exclaimed, glaring at her.

"I called your name three times!" Harry snapped back. "You were so distracted, your head swiveling around in your collar. What's the matter with you? Are you looking for someone?"

"No, I was just...looking for the waiter. I need a refill."

Harry looked at John's nearly full glass of orange juice. "Yeah. You look like you're dehydrating."

John blushed harder.

Suddenly, a look of realization passed over Harry's face. " _Oh my God_. That dance instructor. You shagged him, didn't you?!"

"What, no! Of course not!" John said. "We just...danced."

Harry studied him dubiously. "You just...'danced'."

"Yeah." John cleared his throat.

"Like...he and that woman did last night?"

"Oh, God, no. I could never do that. No, it was..." John trailed off.

Harry gestured with her hand for him to continue.

John looked around to see if anyone was listening, then leaned toward her. "Okay. You cannot tell anyone about this. This is _top secret_."

"Yeah, alright, Captain Watson, are you going to tell me or not?"

John looked around once more, then said, "Okay. When I went outside last night, I saw that valet who showed us to our cabin. He was carrying an armload of watermelons, so I thought I'd help him out. He led me to this staff building - it was more like a shack, really - and there they were, the staff. They were dancing. Like, grind-y, pelvis-y...mating dancing. And they do this on their spare time."

"Why don't they just go to a club?" Harry stated.

"That's what I said. But never mind that, anyway. So, he showed up, I flirted, he said he wasn't interested, but then we...danced."

"Grind-y, pelvis-y, mating dancing."

John smiled sheepishly. "Yeah."

Harry leaned back in her chair. "Hmm...could you introduce me to his friend?"

* * *

After breakfast, Harry went back to the cabin to change into her suit to go to the pool, and John decided to walk about a bit on his own. Maybe he'd go on the zip line or the high ropes...

"Hey! You!" John turned at the sound of someone calling his name. A petite blonde woman with a clipboard was approaching him. "Sign ups for the end-of-summer talent show," she said. She held out her clipboard. "You interested?"

John laughed. "Not much a performer. I could diagnose a sick person for you, that's about it."

"Oh, are you a doctor?" asked the woman.

"Yeah. John Watson," said John, shaking her hand.

"Mary Morstan," said the woman, smiling. "Activities director. You new here?"

"Yeah, just came in with my sister yesterday,"

"Really? That's nice of you, spending time with your sister. You must be close."

"Well, not exactly," said John. "Ever since I came home from overseas, I've been trying to help her. She's a good person, just...messed up, in some ways."

"Tell me about it..." Mary started walking, and John went with her.

They ended up spending all day together. John really liked her. She was pretty, smart, funny, and unlike certain dance instructors John could name, actually seemed to like him back.

"Wow," said Mary, looking up at the darkening sky. They had ventured off the footpath. "I lost track of time."

"Yeah, me too. You're a good conversationalist." John grinned at her.

"Hey! Johnny!" Harry came bounding up to them. She was wearing jean shorts over her bathing suit, and a damp towel around her neck. "I spent all day in the pool. By this rate, I'll be brown as a graham cracker by the end of the-hey, who's this?"

"Oh, Harry, meet Mary. Mary, Harry." John slightly laughed at the rhyme.

"Nice to meet you. Are you John's new girlfriend?"

"Harry!" John hissed.

"He has a new one every week, I swear. Last week it was Jeanette, week before that it was Sarah-" Before John got the chance to throttle his nuisance of a sister, they heard an anguished scream in the distance. "Oh my God," Mary said, as the three of them broke into a sprint, running for the sound.

Another scream. "Hey, that's Molly!" John exclaimed, recognizing the voice.

"Who's Molly?" said Harry.

"Your camp crush."

"Oh my God, what if she's being attacked by a wild bear or something?!" Harry panicked.

"There's no bears in this region," Mary replied.

"MOLLY!" John yelled.

" _Help!_ "

"This way!"

After a moment, they found Molly, lying on the side of the jogging path, balled up, clenching her foot. She was crying and howling in pain. "Molly, what's wrong," said John, immediately taking his role as doctor. Mary pulled out her cell phone and shone the light on them.

"M-muh-my foot," gasped Molly, wincing in agony.

John looked down. His eyes widened in horror. "Christ," he whispered.

Mary looked over his shoulder. "Oh my God," she said, disgusted.

"I'm gonna be sick," choked Harry.

Molly had stripped off her tennis shoe and sock. Her foot had been crushed with a heavy, blunt object. It looked as if her bones had been crushed as well.

"I'll go get Sherlock," said Mary, running off, handing off her phone to Harry.

"Molly, focus," said John, taking her by the shoulders, making her look at him. "How did this happen?"

"I-I-I d-don't know," moaned Molly, sniffling. "I was...j-just going for a late night j-jog...s-someone came up behi-hind me...pushed me to the ground...n-next thing I knew, m-my foot wa-was like...this...oh, God, it hurts-!"

"It's alright, Molly, you're going to be fine. Mary's gone to get help."

Two pairs of rapid footsteps were approaching. "MOLLY!" blared Sherlock's deep baritone as he rushed to Molly's side.

"Sherlock, someone attacked her," said John.

"Who, Molly? Who?" Sherlock demanded.

Molly burst into tears anew. "I DON'T KNOW!" she sobbed.

"Alright, alright. We'll find them, I promise," said Sherlock, and although his tone of voice was consoling, there was a dark note of danger. "John, help me carry Molly up to the nurse's station."

"Right." Sherlock and John formed a fireman's chair for Molly to settle in, with Harry and Mary supporting her legs. They carried her all the way out of the woods, through the campground, and to the main administrative office. "Bloody hell!" Greg exclaimed from behind the front desk, jumping up to open the door to the infirmary for them.

The nurse, Bill, looked up as the sextet came in. "Oh my God, what happened to her?!" he said as John and Sherlock set Molly down on the butcher's paper.

"She needs immediate professional medical attention, possibly an ambulance," said Sherlock, all business.

"It'll take two hours for an ambulance to get all the way out here!" said Bill, dashing about, assembling an ice pack.

"Call a chopper then!" Sherlock roared. "Her bones are completely shattered, there's blood spurting from the wound, she may need surgery!"

"I'm doing my best!" called Bill, elevating Molly's leg and holding the ice pack to it. Molly made a noise of discomfort, biting her lip hard.

"It's okay, it's okay," said Harry, holding her hand, letting Molly squeeze it to alleviate the stress of the pain.

The door opened, and Greg came in, Mycroft in tow. No one had even noticed Greg had left. "What seems to be the problem, little brother?" said Mycroft airily to Sherlock.

"Nothing I can't handle without your help," Sherlock snarled at him.

"Now, now. I'm only trying to help. Miss Hooper, my dear, you needn't worry. I've arranged for a helicopter to come and pick you up. It's expected in twenty minutes. Don't worry about medical expenses, it shall all be covered by the camp. And whoever did this, we'll find them, make no mistake."

"Yes, yes, bravo, you've done your grandstanding, now get out!" said Sherlock, shooing his older brother away.

"John, I'll go with Molly in the helicopter," said Harry, looking at her brother.

"Oh, nonsense, she's my friend, I should go with her-"

"No, Sherlock, s-someone has to teach the class tomorrow. Stay here. I'll be alright," said Molly.

"Molly, are you sure," said Sherlock, and John recognized that protective older brother tone in his voice that he took so often with his own sister.

Molly smiled weakly at him. "I'll be fine. Stronger than I look."

Sherlock smiled back. "Truer words were never spoken." He kissed her forehead. "Call me if you need me. I'll come if convenient. If inconvenient, I'll come all the same."

Molly actually giggled.

* * *

Once Molly and Harry had left in the chopper, it was just Sherlock, John, Mary, and Greg left. They stood out in the main office, all spooked by the experience.

"Someone purposely attacked Molly," said Sherlock, crossing his arms, brooding. "The wound was made by an extremely heavy object being brought down on her foot with great force. This was deliberate. They didn't want to kill her, just incapacitate her. Most likely so she couldn't dance, judging from the fact that only her foot was targeted. But why would someone want to keep Molly from dancing? Was someone jealous of her?"

"I reckon you'll figure it out, Sherlock," said Greg. "No one's a better puzzle solver than you."

Growling, Sherlock vigorously ruffled his hands through his unruly curls. Even though he knew Sherlock was seething mad, John couldn't help but find it a very adorable gesture. "Whoever's done it shall pay dearly. No one hurts Molly Hooper on my watch and gets away with it," Sherlock vowed.

Mary looked at her watch. "It's nearly midnight. We should all go to bed; we're all furious about this but there's nothing we can do."

"Nothing _you_ can do, Mary, maybe, but I intend to check out that crime scene."

Sherlock began to make for the door, but John caught him. "Oi, Sherlock, it's pitch black out there. You won't find anything tonight. Why not just get some sleep and check it out in the morning?"

"In the morning the scene may have been compromised! It may already be too late as it is. Besides, I slept two days ago, I'll be fine."

"Two days?! Eh, hold on-" John turned Sherlock to look at his face. There were pink lines cracking the corneas of Sherlock's silvery eyes, and dark rings beginning to form under them as well. "Sherlock, this isn't healthy, you're a human being, you need sleep!"

"Sleep is for the weak!" Sherlock sniped back, pouting.

"Listen, Sherlock Holmes, you may think you're a bloody god who doesn't need sleep or shag but the fact is, there's nothing we can do tonight. It's too dark to see anything, and besides, like you said, it's probably already too late anyway. Molly needs you bright eyed and bushy tailed to teach her dance class tomorrow, so as a doctor, I am prescribing seven full hours of sleep tonight and a hearty breakfast when you wake up tomorrow morning."

Sherlock blinked several times in surprise. He and John were standing chest to chest, John's jaw thrust out, almost nose to nose, their eyes locked. "Fine," said Sherlock quietly, taking a step back. He was clearly sulking. "After all...a man never argues with his doctor." A tiny smirk flickered at the corner of Sherlock's lips, just for an instant, but John caught it. He grinned.

Then a cloud passed over Sherlock's face. "It's just...well, now..."

"What?" said John.

"What is it, Sherlock?" Mary added.

Sherlock sighed. "Well, I promised an old friend, Martha Hudson, that Molly and I would do our set at her hotel banquet on Thursday. She's going to be terribly disappointed, but...I suppose it can't be helped."

"Maybe someone could fill in for Molly," Greg suggested.

"No one else knows the dance except her and myself," said Sherlock. "And it's too late to teach anyone else."

"Teach me."

The room was silent.

John wasn't quite sure why he'd blurted that out. "You could teach me," he said again, a bit quieter.

"You?" said Sherlock skeptically.

"Well...yeah."

"The mambo is an incredibly difficult dance."

"I was in the army, I'm in good physical condition, despite what anyone thinks. I was invalided for post traumatic stress disorder, not because I couldn't fight anymore."

"I'm sure you're the pinnacle of health, Mister Omniscient Doctor Man, but dancing takes incredible swiftness and fleetness of foot. Frankly, you're too-"

"What, fat?" John snapped. "I'm not fat!"

"No, you're not 'fat', but you're not-"

"What, a skinny beanpole like you?!"

Greg and Mary were watching this verbal ping-pong match in bemused silence.

"I am merely trying to illustrate how very unlikely it is that you could be in the physical form you'd need to be in by the time the banquet arrived."

"I'll work hard," said John. "I'll practice every Goddamn minute. I'll do the steps in my sleep if I have to."

"You're here on holiday, isn't there something you'd rather be doing, like hitting on witless blondes by the poolside?"

"Hey!" Mary said.

"Present company excluded, obviously."

"Damn right."

"Well...well it won't work anyway," said Sherlock. "In case you haven't noticed, you're male. Ballroom dancing is traditionally done with a member of both binary genders. Case en pointe, your idea's stupid."

"Oi, I don't see you coming up with a better one!" John countered, testily.

"If I may put in my two cents..."

"Shut up, Mycroft!" Sherlock snapped as his glacier of a brother stepped into the room.

"I think Doctor Watson has an excellent idea."

"What?" said both men, and Greg and Mary, in surprise.

"Oh, yes. My dear baby brother has always considered himself a man out of his time, and tends to forget that ideals of today are not so Victorian as they were before. This is the twenty first century. Two males performing a dance typically done by a man and a woman will be seen as progressive. Mrs. Hudson is a very open minded person and won't care in the slightest. If anything, it will give this specific performance..." Mycroft gestured poshly with his hand not clutching his umbrella (John wondered why the man even had it in the first place. It was night time, and there wasn't a cloud in the sky. Was it just a fashion statement?). "...piquancy," Mycroft finished.

"Alright, fine," said Sherlock churlishly. "But the fact still remains that John knows nothing about dancing."

"Listen, you pinch nose wanker," John stated flatly. " _I can do this_. Don't worry about me. If anything, I'd worry about being able to keep up with me, if I were you."

Sherlock's eyes pierced him. His nostrils flared. He stared John down for a cool moment. "Alright," he finally said. "The banquet is on Thursday. This is Saturday night. You have exactly four and a half days to perfect this dance. Every moment not eating or sleeping will be spent with me in the dance studio or practicing the steps on your own."

"Not a problem," said John.

"You're sure?"

"I picked up the names of every bone in the human body in twenty minutes at uni. This is weak sauce."

Sherlock smirked, amused at John's confidence. "I'm glad _you_ think so."

John scowled as the lanky dance instructor breezed past him. "We'll begin right after breakfast. Don't keep me waiting. Get a good night of sleep, Doctor Watson...you're going to need it." Sherlock winked at him smugly, clicking his tongue. Then, he was gone.

Mary fanned herself. "Whew. Might want to crack a window, Gregory, it's a bit warm in here, isn't it?"

"Doctor Watson."

John looked at the older Holmes brother.

Mycroft smirked with both amusement and pity. "My brother is a handful. I wish you luck."

John stuffed his hands in his pockets and made for the door. "Thanks, mate," he muttered. "Think I'll need it."


	3. Hungry Eyes

[](https://www.tumblr.com/dashboard#) [](https://www.tumblr.com/dashboard#)  


The next morning, John leapt out of bed, showered fast and scrubbed his hair and body clean, shaved quickly without managing to nick himself, and put on a tee shirt, jeans, and trainers. He stared at himself in the mirror.

 _Do I look alright?_ John fretted to himself. _My hair part’s doing something weird today…oh, who cares?_

 _You do,_ a snide little voice said in his head. _Because you want to impress that pretty dance instructor._

 _Shut up!_ John snapped at the voice mentally, stomping out of the bathroom. As if John cared what that rude, icy…completely gorgeous twat thought of him.

After a brief breakfast, John hiked down to the dance studio, but he found that the door was locked. He knocked but there was no answer. Then, looking around, he spied a tall, thin, dark figure standing in the distance. He was positioned in the same place Molly had been attacked.

John trod over to him. His dark curls were damp from the morning condensation and shining in the early dawn sunlight. God, Sherlock Holmes was more than just pretty-he was _stunning_. He was wearing another tight button up shirt-this one was deep royal purple. And of course, his trousers were ridiculously form-fitting as always. He looked like pure sex. John found himself staring for a moment, then shook himself out of his stupor and cleared his throat. “Good morning,” he said.

“Morning,” muttered Sherlock, barely registering his presence, deep in thought. His crisp silver eyes were scanning over the ground before them. “I’ve found traces of a footprint trail, but it’s been obscured. Clever. But not quite clever enough. Doctor, how strong are you?”

“I? Er…” John caught himself puffing up. _You’re peacocking, stop that._ “Pretty strong,” he answered modestly.

“Good. In that patch of grass over there you’ll find a heavy barbell. Go and pick it up, please.”

John ambled over to where Sherlock was indicating and indeed, found a large metal hand weight. He grasped the handle and pulled it up, just barely able to lift it. “Good Lord!” John gasped.

“Indeed.” John saw that it was marked **50** on the side as Sherlock bent in the grass to examine the weight and help hold it up so John didn’t have to strain so much.

“Where did it come from, Sherlock?” John asked.

“I believe this came from none other than the camp’s gymnasium.”

“Did someone take it?”

“So it would appear. Now, look here, on the underside that was buried in the grass: dried blood. Molly’s, I’d presume.”

“So this is what they used to hurt her.” John felt the taste of bile rising up in his throat in anger. Who could be so pure evil as to hurt such a good soul as Molly?

“Yes. This little piece of evidence will be crucial in finding her assailant. Here-” Sherlock pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and wrapped it gingerly around the bloody end. Then he stood up, holding up the end of the weight. “We’ll take this back to the dance studio for safe keeping until we find whoever did this.”

“I got a text from Harry this morning,” John commented as they trudged along up to the studio. “She said Molly’s having surgery done on her foot today. It’ll be a week until she can walk-”

“And probably a good two months before she can dance again.” Sherlock cursed. “God, I can’t wait to get my hands on whoever did this. I have my suspicions, but nevertheless, time’s wasting. It’s Sunday morning, 8 AM. The banquet is on Thursday at 7 PM. That means we have 107 hours to get you flawless at this dance.”

“No pressure,” John laughed nervously.

* * *

As promised, Sherlock was a ruthless teacher, and showed no mercy.

John extended his left arm and tried to curl his right.

“No. Other way. I’m leading,” said Sherlock curtly.

“What? Why?” said John.

“Because this is the way I know it. I don’t have time to teach myself the steps all over again as well as you. Besides, you and Molly are the same height.”

“Oi, I’m at least four inches taller than her!”

“Not when she’s in heels. I’m leading. End of discussion.”

John scowled but took up the traditionally feminine dance position. Sherlock started the music and began directing their steps. He started out with the salsa step, a fairly simple move. Basically his right foot back, then middle, then his left foot front, then middle. But Sherlock nitpicked the whole time.

“Head up…lock your frame. No, no, no, you must hold the frame. Look here.” He made John expand and stiffen his arms. “This is _your_ dance space, this is _my_ dance space. I don’t go into your space, you don’t go into mine. Alright, let’s try it again.”

As he and Sherlock moved, John cautiously watched his feet, making sure they were mirroring Sherlock’s and not in danger of tripping him up-or worse, stepping on the dancer’s elegant feet. After a minute, John looked up, grinning ear to ear, the step coming to him naturally.

Sherlock remained stone faced, but John thought he caught a glimmer of a smile in his grey eyes.

Next was the turn. Since John was following – and shorter – John had to be the one to be spun by Sherlock. This was a little trickier. John was in good physical condition, no question, but grace was not something that the Watsons came by naturally. In their childhood, John had frequently been called “Bilbo Baggins” by his sister for his rather large and bumbling feet. John ended up nearly falling over, knocking Sherlock over, or smacking his forehead into the other man’s several times. But eventually, he got that down too.

They learned more and more basic-to-intermediate moves, and John was mastering them faster than either of them had given him credit for. When they weren’t working together in the studio, John was off by himself, practicing the steps. He was like a man possessed. Eventually, he was dancing with Sherlock almost as well as Molly had. Finally, late Tuesday afternoon, Sherlock gave in and returned John’s smile. John’s heart skipped a beat.

John was rather impressed with himself. Mainly because he was catching on with the dance (and impressing Sherlock), but also because he was managing not to melt into a puddle of infatuated goo in the handsome instructor’s arms. Especially when his back was pressed against Sherlock’s torso, his arm extended up, cradling Sherlock’s head as the backs of Sherlock’s fingers on his left hand skimmed sensually down his side seam to his hip. John felt goosebumps spring up where the man’s fingers brushed his flesh and crawl up to the back of his neck, and suppressed a shudder.

John knew it was all about the aesthetic of the routine. There was nothing more between them besides professional interest. But still, sometimes, when Sherlock’s gaze was locked with his during their dance…he thought he could sense something…

* * *

“I really think you’re getting it,” said Sherlock, walking with John out of the studio. “I’m…I’m impressed. Well done.”

John pretended to be shocked, clutching his heart dramatically. “Did I just hear correctly? Did _Sherlock Holmes_ just pay me a complement?”

“It most likely won’t happen again,” Sherlock vowed.

John grinned cheekily. “You wanna know what I think?”

“Not particularly.”

“I think you’re warming up to me.”

“You’re delusional.”

“You’re starting to like me!” John sang, playfully poking Sherlock in the rib. It must’ve been a sensitive spot, because Sherlock suddenly let out a giggle, then quickly shut up.

John laughed. “Are you _ticklish_?”

“No!” said Sherlock quickly.

John began wiggling his fingers up Sherlock’s sides, drawing strained chortles from the dance instructor, who was trying to keep from losing his composure. “Stop it! JOHN!” Sherlock cracked, laughing out loud as John showed no mercy. “No, John, please! Stop, please!”

“Just once, can you two behave like grown-ups?” said a dry voice as Mycroft approached, impeccably dressed in a three piece suit and spats, umbrella in hand. Mary Morstan was at his side with her clipboard.

“I wouldn’t hold out too much hope,” grinned John, winking at Sherlock. _WHOA, did he just blush?_

“I thought the two of you would be working vigorously on your dance routine,” said Mycroft imperiously. “There are just 28 hours to go, you know.”

“I was in the _middle_ of it, Mycroft.” Sherlock scowled at his older brother. “John’s learned most of the routine down pat. We’re just going into the woods to perfect the embellishments.”

“Good. Get it done. Oh, and Doctor Watson, my lovely associate here – I believe you know her already – has a form for you to sign.”

Mary stepped forward, handing John her clipboard and a pen. “Just initial there, please.”

“What’s this?” John asked.

“It’s a release form, saying that if you’re injured while in my reckless care, you won’t sue the camp. Isn’t that right, brother dear,” said Sherlock churlishly, turning to glare at Mycroft.

“A mere precaution, Sherlock. Believe it or not, not every move I make is a personal insult to you.”

“And yet I feel insulted by your very presence. Good _bye_ , Mycroft. Come on, John,” Sherlock huffed, grabbing John’s hand and pulling him into the trees.

“You and your brother…lot of tension there,” John observed casually.

“She’s attracted to you, you know.”

John was a bit taken aback by this. “What? Who, Mary?”

“Yes. Her pupils dilated when she approached you, her hand lingered when she handed you her pen, didn’t you notice?”

John was a little surprised. “I…guess not,” he said, shrugging.

Sherlock was quiet for a moment, then asked, “Do you like her?”

John hesitated. “She’s…nice. Pretty.”

Sherlock said nothing.

John’s mouth felt dry all of a sudden. “I’m just not…all that attracted to her.”

Sherlock seemed to soften, but still said nothing.

A smile gradually appeared at the corner of John’s lips. “Are you jealous?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sherlock answered promptly. A little _too_ promptly.

John didn’t reply, just bit his bottom lip and grinned. _Definitely something, then._

They reached a fat log fell across a charming little brook. Sherlock, after removing his shoes and socks, stepped upon it and walked across it, fearless and graceful as a cat. “And what are we doing here?” John inquired, sitting down at the base of the trunk.

“Call this the advanced level.”

John looked from him, to the log, then back to Sherlock. “Wait-you mean-”

“Come on,” said Sherlock, holding out his hand to John.

John shook his head. “N-no way. I’ll fall and break my neck.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and padded across to him in his bare feet. He took John’s hands, coaxed up to stand, pulled him onto the log, and assumed their dancing position.

John wobbled, but managed to regain his balance. “Sherlock, I don’t know about this.”

“Don’t look down,” Sherlock directed. “Keep your eyes fixed on me.”

John swallowed, as Sherlock’s gentle fingers coaxed his chin upward. His usually chilly silver eyes were…soft, somehow. John’s cheeks suddenly felt warm.

They did their steps on the log, hovering over the creek. They had no music, just the rustic sounds of the wood: the babbling of the brook, the soft wind in the branches of the trees, the occasional song of the sparrows and finches. They almost fell over several times, but each time they found their balance again and continued their dance.

“Good,” said Sherlock, almost tenderly, as if not wanting break the solace of the forest’s quiet. “I think you’re ready for the last step.”

“Which is?” John dared to ask.

* * *

They were standing in a meadow, several paces apart, facing each other. Sherlock held out his arms. “Bend your knees and jump. Go, go,” he instructed.

John ran at him and hopped up. Sherlock caught him up and tried to lift him, but it didn’t work out. John ended up falling on top of Sherlock, their chests pressed together, John’s legs straddling Sherlock’s thighs and his forearms trapped under Sherlock’s back. Their faces – their _lips_ – were mere inches from each other. They stared into each other’s eyes, not daring to move.

Okay, Sherlock was definitely blushing now.

John swallowed. “M-maybe you jump up and I do the lifting, eh?” His heart was pumping so quickly, he was sure the other man could feel it. Stupid, _stupid_ …

Sherlock quickly nodded, licking his lips nervously – _oh, Christ_, thought John desperately. Sherlock said to him, “I think that’d be best.”

“Y-yeah. Okay.” They lay for a moment longer entwined, their gazes locked, then John forced himself to get up, and offered a hand to Sherlock to help him up.

“Thank you,” said Sherlock, clearing his throat.

“Yeah, don’t mention it,” John mumbled.

They worked on the lift for another hour or so, till they had it. By then, the sun was going down.

Sherlock looked at John. “Dinner?” he asked.

“Starving,” John promptly replied, and the two men headed off to the mess hall together.

* * *

Molly clapped her hands after John and Sherlock finished their dance. “Oh my God, I’m so impressed! And you did it all in four days?”

“John’s a hard worker,” said Sherlock, almost proudly.

John puffed up. “Thanks.”

“And not as much of an idiot as I thought.”

John deflated back down. “So close.”

“Johnny,” said Harry, her elbow propped on the handle of Molly’s wheelchair. “I never knew you had it in you.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, sis,” said John, rolling his eyes.

“Don’t listen to these two,” Molly laughed. “You’re a great dancer, John. You should be proud of yourself.”

“And you’re performing this – _tonight_ – in front of a hundred odd people?” said Harry incredulously.

“Two hundred, most likely,” Sherlock interjected.

John paled.

“Don’t worry,” said Sherlock, touching John’s shoulder. “I have every confidence in you, John.”

John smiled bashfully.

Harry and Molly, unknown to the two boys, shared a look.

Sherlock cleared his throat. “Erm, before we head off to the hotel, I need to take care of something. John, will you help me carry something?”

“Sure,” said John.

Sherlock pointed to a wrapped bundle in the corner sitting by the stereo. “Be careful, it’s quite heavy.” Sherlock gave him a pointed look.

John’s eyebrows knit together; then he realized. _The barbell._

John followed Sherlock outside, and once they were out of earshot of the ladies, asked the dance teacher while struggling with the heavy weight, “What are we doing with this thing?”

“I’ve deduced that this weight has in fact come from the camp gymnasium. Upon investigation, I discovered today that one of the fifty pound weights is obviously missing. We’re off to have a little word with the gym leader.”

“And that is?” John huffed.

Sherlock grimaced. “Sebastian Moran.”

* * *

John set – well, rather, plopped – the weight down on Moran’s desk. Sherlock untied the string on the cloth bundle, revealing the weight and the bloody stain on one end.

Moran, his fingers pressed together in consideration, looked at the weight, then looked up at them. “So what?”

“I believe this has been missing from your weight rack,” said Sherlock, his hands behind his back, his manner placid. But John knew better from the pulsating vein in Sherlock’s temple. There was white hot fury hiding behind those calm, wintery grey eyes. Molly was like a little sister to him. And now someone had deliberately hurt her.

“Perhaps it is. I haven’t really noticed,” Moran lied easily.

“You? Not noticing a piece of your equipment was missing? That’s highly unlike you, Sebastian. You observe the blood stains on that end, I assume.”

“Yes. Who could miss them?”

“This barbell was found at the scene where Molly Hooper was attacked and maimed with a heavy and blunt object, which crushed her foot quite significantly. An object ideally like this, I would imagine. Now isn’t that convenient?”

“A coincidence, to be sure,” replied Moran.

Sherlock was suddenly bent over the table, his palms slamming down on the wood of its surface. His nose was shoved in Moran’s face, and he was sneering. “You know what I think, Sebastian? I think coincidences don’t really happen. The universe is rarely so lazy, you’ll find. I believe this barbell was stolen by – or rather, loaned out by yourself to someone. Perhaps, a certain malicious head waiter boyfriend of yours?”

Moran smirked. “Oh, Sherlock. Everyone knows you and Jim have had rivalry. But this is a little ludicrous. Are you really accusing him of attacking Miss Hooper?”

“You know I’m right,” Sherlock breathed.

“Do you have any proof?”

Sherlock was silent.

Moran smiled. “I didn’t think so. Try to have some tangible evidence before throwing around accusations haphazardly. Or better yet, stick to dancing. That’s what you’re good at. Now get out of my office.”

Sherlock growled, but turned away and headed for the door angrily.

“Oh, and thanks for finding my barbell.” Moran smirked as Sherlock and John exited.

“Who’s Jim?” asked John.

“My nemesis. After Mycroft, that is.”

“You know, most people don’t have nemeses,” John pointed out.

“Jim Moriarty is poison. He’s a dancer like me,” said Sherlock. “A long time ago, he and I trained together. We were the best in our class. Jim…was infatuated with me,” Sherlock admitted. John was slightly taken aback. “He wanted to be my partner, both professionally and otherwise. I refused. So he set out to ruin my reputation – and he did.”

“How?” said John.

“I’d rather not divulge that,” Sherlock answered tersely. “In any event, had my damned brother not stepped in on my behalf, I would be without work and living arrangements.”

“But look at you and look at him,” said John, trying to look on the bright side. “Here you are, the dance teacher at a posh summer camp, and he’s waiting tables.”

“Yes. When he’s not dancing for the Royal Ballet.”

“Oh,” said John.

“He doesn’t even need the work here. He only does it to irk me! I’ve tried out for the Ballet three times! But for the-” Sherlock cut off. “Well, never mind that now. It’s time that we headed off to the hotel. Go and change. I’ll meet you at the car in fifteen minutes.”


	4. Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow?

John drummed his fingers nervously against his knee, watching the scenery whiz by as the car sped down the road.

“Stop worrying,” Sherlock murmured to him, keeping his eyes on where he was driving.

“I can’t help it,” said John. He was dressed almost identically to Sherlock, except Sherlock’s button up shirt was black and his was red. They were both wearing black slacks and black jazz shoes. Sherlock looked absolutely edible as always, his curls in a perpetual state of post-coital messiness. That wasn’t helping.

“You know the dance, John. Just focus on me and you’ll be fine. Remember, I’ll be there to help you,” said Sherlock.

“Yeah,” said John, breathing deeply, trying to calm himself. He licked his lips, trying to think of something to say to make conversation, take his mind off his pre-show jitters. “I didn’t know you could drive.”

Sherlock smiled wryly. “Mycroft said I didn’t have the focus to learn how. I earned my license that afternoon just to spite him.”

John chuckled. “And I thought me and Harry had problems.”

Sherlock laughed in kind. Then a moment passed before Sherlock said, quietly, “I never did thank you for doing this, did I? And I suppose that’s what people do when someone does them a favor. So…well. There. I said it.”

John smiled and put his hand on Sherlock’s thigh. “You’re welcome, Sherlock.”

Sherlock turned his head to look him in the eye. Their gazes held for a few seconds, then John shyly pulled his hand away, returning it to his lap. If it hadn’t been dark, they would have seen each other’s blush.

They rode the rest of the way to the hotel in silence.

* * *

John saw a complete new side of Sherlock Holmes as he warmly hugged Martha Hudson and kissed her papery cheek, like a nephew greets his favorite auntie. “Oh, Sherlock, look at you. You’re even thinner than you were a week ago,” Mrs. Hudson tutted. “You and your boyfriend’ll stay for dinner, I hope.”

“Mrs. Hudson, this is my dance partner, Doctor John Watson,” said Sherlock.

“Oh, how lovely,” said Mrs. Hudson, shaking his hand warmly. “Have you been together long?”

“We’ve been dancing together since Sunday,” said John, blushing. He noticed how neither he nor Sherlock had exactly _denied_ being in a relationship, although they clearly weren’t.

“Well, Doctor Watson, I do hope you’ll convince that boy to eat something from time to time. I’m afraid he’s just going to waste away to nothing one of these days.”

“Mrs. Hudson, you worry too much,” smiled Sherlock.

“Well your family doesn’t worry enough,” Mrs. Hudson chided. “Oh, look at the time!”

“Yes, I believe that’s our cue. John?”

Sherlock began leading John to the stage, but Mrs. Hudson grabbed his shoulder. “Oh, wait.” She licked her thumb and smoothed it across Sherlock’s eyebrow. “There. Off you pop.”

John chuckled as they left the hotel owner alone. “She’s sweet.”

“Yes. She seems to think she’s my second mummy.”

“But you like it, though,” John commented.

“How would you know that?” asked Sherlock, studying him.

John just shrugged. “I know you.”

Sherlock cocked his eyebrow, scrutinizing John. “Care to dance, Doctor Watson?” he asked after a second.

“It’d be my pleasure, Mister Holmes.” John offered Sherlock his arm, and allowed Sherlock to lead him onto the stage.

The crowd applauded politely as they took their position. Sherlock had been right, there were some two hundred odd people here. Some of them were studying Sherlock’s new partner, whispering amongst themselves, but most were just clapping, patiently waiting to see what would happen.

An announcer came on over the PA. “ _The Hudson Hotel is proud to present Sherlock Holmes and partner in…‘Mambo Magic’!_ ” The music began.

They started out with John’s back to Sherlock’s front, John’s arm cradling Sherlock’s head and Sherlock stroking his side. John swallowed nervously and looked up at Sherlock.

“Relax…” Sherlock breathed.

Sherlock’s hand drifted down across his belly and to his hip where John’s hand was resting. Then he grabbed it and twirled John out, then spun him back into himself. John stumbled and fell into Sherlock’s chest. He looked up nervously at Sherlock.

Sherlock stared back at him, something in his gaze calming. _Just ignore them. Pretend it’s just you and me._

John nodded lightly, smiled, and took up his stance.

They began to salsa easily to the music, and John forced himself to loosen up. Sherlock nodded slightly, then spun him around. This time, John didn’t trip.

They went through the whole dance with no major screw ups. As long as John kept a clear mind and didn’t start panicking, just stayed calm and didn’t overthink, he could perform. Sherlock helped by whispering the next move to him occasionally. “Cross body lead.”

The lookers-on, even those who had been unsure at the sight of the two men at first, were captivated by them. Now that John was on surer footing, he was starting to genuinely enjoy himself.

“Wrong way!” Sherlock whispered as John twirled. _Oops_ , John thought as he quickly reversed. Sherlock gave him a small half smile, reassuringly.

Despite those slight, inconsequential hiccups, they were still doing quite well. The crowd clapped as John and Sherlock completed an intricate step. “Ready for the lift?” Sherlock said in his ear.

“Yeah,” said John.

“Good. Go to position.”

John and Sherlock separated. John went stage left; Sherlock, stage right. John’s heart was pumping. His palms felt sweaty.

Sherlock came running toward him. John held out his arms.

But he just wasn’t ready.

Sherlock sort of slipped through his grasp, his feet lighting on the floor as easily as a cat’s. John’s cheeks and ears burned with embarrassment. “I’m sor-!”

“S’fine, just keep going!” Sherlock breathed to him, taking him back up into his arms and resuming the dance. John may have messed up on the major lift, but the next one he didn’t. Sherlock propped himself on John’s hips and John spun around with him, drawing an impressed bout of applause from the audience.

They finished the dance, and the crowd applauded them appreciatively. John and Sherlock shared an accomplished smile, then took their bows.

“Oh, boys, that was wonderful!” cooed Mrs. Hudson, coming to them after they’d exited the stage to kiss their cheeks. “Oh, and here you go.” She handed them each a cheek.

John’s eyes grew very wide at the amount on the piece of paper in his hand. “M-mrs. Hudson, I…thi-this is too much-!”

“Oh hush now, love, you did a beautiful job, and on such short notice. You really came through for our dear little Sherlock.” Mrs. Hudson wrinkled her nose adoringly as she tousled Sherlock’s curls.

“Mrs. Hudson…” Sherlock blushed.

“Come on, dears. I’ve got two spots saved for you at my table. And I don’t want any arguing!”

* * *

Two hours later, John and Sherlock were driving home. “Sherlock, I’m sorry about the lift, I-I just wasn’t ready for it, I guess, I lost my nerve or something-”

“John, it’s alright, you did fine,” Sherlock soothed.

“Bu-but I could’ve _dropped_ you-”

“I thought you might lose your confidence, so I was prepared in case you did. Really, John, it’s all fine. You did a wonderful job, especially considering you learned the dance in four days. I’m really proud of you.”

John blushed, smiling at his lap.

When they pulled up to the camp, there was someone standing in the parking lot, waiting for them.

Jim Moriarty.

Sherlock’s jaw tightened at the sight of him. His knuckles gripped the steering wheel tighter.

“Sherlock…” said John in a quelling manner, but his voice fell upon deaf ears.

Sherlock turned off the ignition, unbuckled his seat belt, and got out of the car. John followed suit.

Sherlock strode over to the head waiter, standing there, calm and cool, his hands in his trouser pockets.

“Good evening, Sherlock,” said Moriarty, almost amicably.

“Jim,” said Sherlock flatly.

“Do hope the dance went well. Heard you’ve been spending every waking moment with your new little partner.” Moriarty flashed John a smile. “Don’t believe I’ve formally introduced myself.”

“You didn’t have to,” said John, coming to Sherlock’s side. “I know who you are.”

Moriarty directed his leer at Sherlock. “You told him about me, pumpkin? I’m touched.”

“You’re touched alright – in the head,” growled Sherlock.

Moriarty chuckled. “You always had a way with sweet talk, Sherlock.”

“You hurt Molly Hooper,” Sherlock accused.

Moriarty shrugged almost comically. “So what if I did?”

“If you did, then you know that I’ll be very, very cross with you,” said Sherlock, his voice a dangerous threat draped in silk.

“Oh, that’s cute. Really adorable,” said Moriarty, smirking. “But we both know you can’t lay a finger on me, sweetheart.” The snake man stepped toward Sherlock and leaned into his personal space, his words a cool puff of breath against the man’s cheek. “I don’t think even big brother Mikey could get you out of the trouble you’d be in.”

John could feel his hands curling into fists, his jaw tightening. His blood was pounding in his ears.

“Come near her again…or anyone for that matter…” Sherlock murmured. “And you’ll seriously regret it.”

Moriarty giggled and stepped back. “No, I won’t!” he sang in a falsetto.

Sherlock began heading off to his cabin, passing Moriarty on the way. “Don’t worry, Sherlock. You don’t have to deal with me for very long. Summer’s almost over. It’s not that long until…the _fall_.” As Sherlock passed him, Moriarty stuck out his foot and tripped him. Sherlock clattered to the gravel driveway.

“Sherlock, are you al-!” John feinted as if he were going to help Sherlock up, then instead whirled around and punched Moriarty square in the face. Moriarty staggered backward, genuinely surprised.

John took a step toward him, seething. “Lay a finger on my friend again, and I’ll break every bone in your body _while naming them._ ”

Sherlock was watching him wide eyed as John turned around and helped him to his feet. “Come on,” said John quietly, taking his hand and interlacing their fingers together as they headed off together.

They went to Sherlock’s room, Cabin 21, and they went inside. As Sherlock turned on a lamp beside his bed, John spotted a bad scrape on his cheek where his face had hit the gravel. “Oh God, here, let me clean that.” John made Sherlock sit down on his bed, then went into the bathroom to get soap, water, a washcloth, and the standard first aid kit that was supplied in every cabin.

John gently cleaned his cheek with soap and water, then sterilized the wound. Sherlock winced as the antiseptic stung his face.

“Sorry,” John murmured.

The scrape, luckily, was fairly small, but as it was positioned in such a precarious spot, John couldn’t really bandage it. He could only make sure it was very, very clean. As John tenderly touched his face, Sherlock muttered, “you wouldn’t really break his bones, would you?”

“While naming them,” John repeated.

“You couldn’t.”

“You forget, Sherlock, I was a soldier. I’ve killed people.”

“You were a doctor.”

Now finished with patching Sherlock up, John put down his tools on the bedside table. His hands lighted upon the top of Sherlock’s thigh once again. “I had bad days,” John said softly.

They stared into each other’s eyes for a moment. Then Sherlock slowly stood up. He silently crossed to the other side of the room to a small radio and turned it on. He held out his hand to John.

“Dance with me.”

John was at his side without a thought.

As they drew close and wound their arms around each other, John recognized the song coming on the radio. It was “The Only Exception” by Paramore. _Fitting, that_ , mused John.

They began to sway gently to the ballad’s mellow chords. John chuckled softly. “Been ages since I’ve slow danced with anyone,” he said.

“I never really have,” Sherlock admitted.

John smiled up at him. “I’m glad I’m your first.”

Sherlock blushed, turning his eyes downward.

John lay his head against the taller man’s shoulder. His left hand was on the small of Sherlock’s back. Sherlock’s right hand was resting on his shoulder blade. Their remaining hands joined together, their fingers entwined. John closed his eyes, listening to the sound of Sherlock’s heart beat to the music.

They remained like this for several minutes, just dancing and being in each other’s arms. Then John looked up, and his and Sherlock’s eyes locked onto each other at the same instant.

John slowly brought his face toward Sherlock’s. Sherlock pressed him closer to his body. Their lips finally touched.

John cupped Sherlock’s jaw as he pressed his lips against his, kissing him properly. Sherlock’s eyes fluttered shut, kissing him back. Their mouths seemed to fit together perfectly, like two matching puzzle pieces. Sherlock seemed to just _melt_ into John’s embrace, hugging him close, almost clinging to him. John’s fingers slid upward and found his thick curls, stroking his scalp. Sherlock sighed into the kiss.

John felt drunk. Or high. That was probably more accurate, because while his entire body was buzzing, his mind felt blank, only able to focus on the sensation of Sherlock’s lips on his. Their kiss was still soft, still tender, but intense. He kissed the man’s top lip, then the bottom. Sherlock’s mouth parted slightly, and John kissed him full on, warm and wet.

“John…”

John felt like he couldn’t get enough of the taste. The tip of his tongue darted out and swept across the ridge of Sherlock’s bottom lip. Sherlock’s mouth opened wider, invitingly, and John slid his tongue inside, drinking him in.

Sherlock gasped shakily, clinging to his sturdy frame. John hummed against him, kissing him deeply. His hand, not holding Sherlock to him by the small of his back, slid down, lightly traced the contours of his ears, the long expanse of his neck, along his collar, to the first straining button of his shirt. It popped open for him almost immediately.

Sherlock broke away for air. “Oh, God, Sherlock, I’m sorry, I didn’t even ask, I don’t even know if you want to-” John babbled.

“I-I-I do,” Sherlock stammered nervously.

They stared at each other for a second.

“I do,” Sherlock repeated, more sure.

A nervous, excited smile gradually swept over John’s face. “Really?”

“Yes. I-if…you want to,” Sherlock said quietly.

John laughed out loud. “Oh, _God_ , yes!”

Sherlock smiled, sighing with relief. John had never seen the dancer like this before. It was terribly adorable. Burying his hands in Sherlock’s thick hair once more, he kissed him softly, and guided him over to the side of the bed, sitting him on its edge. The radio was now on “Kiss Me” by Sixpence None The Richer and John had to try to keep from cracking up at the contrived cheesiness of it. John coaxed Sherlock to lie on his back, hovering over him, showering him in kisses.

John kissed the corner of Sherlock’s mouth, his jaw, and down his sensitive neck. Sherlock sighed. “John…”

“You are absolutely beautiful,” John whispered to him, pressing a kiss to the juncture of Sherlock’s ear and his jawline. Sherlock shivered and reached for John, drawing him back to kiss his lips again. John shyly chuckled, his hand trailing down again to slowly unbutton the rest of Sherlock’s shirt. He pushed the fabric away and pulled back to view the porcelain scape of flesh.

“Absolutely beautiful,” John repeated, his hands sliding down Sherlock’s sides, feeling his ribs beneath his skin. “Mrs. Hudson’s right, though. You do need to eat more often.”

“Oh, spare me,” said Sherlock, exasperated, rolling his eyes.

“What? I care about you,” said John, nibbling Sherlock’s neck.

“…you do?”

John looked up from what he was doing and stared into Sherlock’s eyes. “ _Yes_.”

“Why?”

John kind of laughed. “I dunno – there needs to be a reason?”

“Well, I…no one ever-”

“Well, they should,” John cut him off. “You’re completely gorgeous.” John kissed his temple, a link to that clever mind he admired so much. “Inside and out.”

“I’ve been told that I am an insufferable misanthrope that needs to rot. Well, perhaps not in those precise words, but-”

“But they don’t know you,” John finished for him again. “They don’t see much past the massive intellect or the assholery. But I have. You’re so much more than all that.”

Sherlock stared at him in amazement. “Why me?” he asked. “Of all the people you can have…why choose me?”

John smiled. “I didn’t choose you. I was drawn to you. Why did you choose me? I’m not much. Not tall, not handsome, not a genius. Not like you.”

“Two out of those assessments are correct. You are quite handsome.”

John cracked up. “Great. So you only like me for my looks. Good to know.”

“I like you for much more than your transport,” Sherlock assured him. “You’re quite possibly the bravest and the kindest and the wisest human being I have ever had the good fortune of knowing.”

John flushed, looking down at Sherlock’s torso bashfully, idling drawing designs with his index finger on his skin. “That’s a lot to infer about a person after only knowing them a week.”

“146 hrs,” Sherlock specified. “And…” He consulted the alarm clock sitting next to his lamp. “28 minutes.”

John smiled down at the man beneath him, who carried more light in his strange and enchanting eyes than the sky carried stars. John felt his chest ache with something he wasn’t quite brave enough to put a name on. “I should very much like to make love to you, Sherlock Holmes,” he said throatily.

“I should like that very much, John Watson,” Sherlock murmured back.

John leant down and kissed him once more. Sherlock’s hands fell to the buttons of his shirt and made quick work of removing it from his person. John felt the dancer’s elegant fingers trace over the circular scar on his shoulder. Sherlock looked at it for a moment, then leaned up to press his lips to it in a reverent kiss.

They explored each other’s bodies with hands and mouths. John found he could draw sounds of pleasure out of Sherlock by stroking his nails down his sides and across his pronounced hip bones. He teased lightly at his nipples while sucking on his long slender neck, almost hard enough to leave marks, and had Sherlock soon _whimpering_. “John,” he gasped chokingly, pressing the bulge in his trousers against John’s thigh. “ _Please_.”

“Please what?” John teased coyly.

Sherlock glared at him. “ _Touch_ me.”

John grinned and kissed him, while his fingers drifted downward. He pulled down Sherlock’s fly excruciatingly slowly, then reached into his pants and drew out Sherlock’s cock, swollen and leaking.

“Oh, _yes_ , love,” John moaned into Sherlock’s ear, turned on by how much Sherlock was aroused by him. He took him in hand and stroked him terribly slowly, drawing out Sherlock’s pleasure. Sherlock bit his bottom lip to keep from moaning, his hands fisting in the sheets.

“No, no, love, I want to hear you,” John said, licking a stripe up Sherlock’s neck. “God, you’re so _beautiful_ -”

“ _Jooohn_ ,” cried Sherlock, drowning and blissed out and so _hot_. “John… _John_ …oh God…” His hips were thrusting upward erratically into John’s hand.

“That’s right, you lovely genius, you come for me.” Sherlock _sobbed_ as he climaxed all over John’s fist, trembling as John continued to stroke him throughout the aftershocks. His senses felt overloaded, he felt tender, hypersensitized, born again.

John’s own erection was straining in his trousers. He sighed with relief as he rid himself of his lower garments. Suddenly, Sherlock was leaning over his lap-

“Sherlock, what are you – oh, _God_.” Sherlock wrapped his lips around the fat head of John’s cock, sucking with wanton abandon, swallowing him down. “Oh God, Sherlock,” moaned John, his hand flying to Sherlock’s thatch of curls. He was already so close; he could feel his balls drawing up. “I can’t hold back, love, I’m gonna-”

Sherlock hummed around him, giving him the okay, and John’s hips arched as he spilled in Sherlock’s mouth, gasping for breath as pleasure spread sharply through his entire body. He was still shaky as Sherlock pulled off of him. “Oh God, love, c’mere.” John grabbed Sherlock and kissed him hard, thrusting his tongue deep inside his mouth and tasting himself. “You are so lovely,” John murmured to him, pressing kisses to Sherlock’s skin gluttonously.

They lay back down on the bed, side by side, in each other’s arms. Sherlock kicked off the rest of his clothes and John pulled up the covers over their naked bodies. “C’mere,” he said again, pulling Sherlock to him. He kissed his forehead, hugging him close.

Sherlock looked up at him. “Stay?” he asked softly.

“Of course, love,” said John, smiling sleepily. He rolled over slightly to turn off the lamp, then wrapped his arms around the other man. “Sleep, you gorgeous creature.”

The two of them were very soon deeply asleep, snug in each other’s grasp and totally at peace. The radio, left on in all the excitement, had gone to soft white noise, adding to the tranquil soundtrack of the forest and the camp in the quiet night.


	5. Some Kind Of Wonderful

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took so long. I wanted to get it just right. But anyway, more porn and these guys being disgustingly in love. (Before the trouble begins.)
> 
> BTW, John and Sherlock aren't as old in this story as they are on the show. They're probably about 27 and 23, respectively. That's why they act a bit more youthful.

John was used to waking up with the sun thanks to his military training, so when the morning light streamed in through the window of Sherlock's cabin, his eyes opened automatically. He blinked several times, then looked down at the beautiful man in his arms.

Sherlock's skin was radiant in the early morning sunshine. His flesh wasn't ghostly, but rather, ivory, like cream or Dove soap. His brunette curls betrayed a undertone of auburn, to John's surprise. His cheek was pressed into John's shoulder as he continued to sleep peacefully in John's grasp.

John smiled, utterly besotted, and pressed a soft kiss to the other man's forehead.

Sherlock woke at once, shifting against John. Then he opened his eyes, blinking up at John several times. His normally silver irises reflected marble green in the dawn light. "Morning," he murmured throatily, baritone rough from sleep.

"Hi," said John, kissing his forehead again. "You alright?"

Sherlock nodded sleepily, closing eyes and laying his head back on John's shoulder. "I slept a long time."

"Not that long," John chuckled, looking at his watch. "About six hours."

"That's longer than I'm used to," Sherlock replied.

John rolled his eyes. "You have _got_ to start taking better care of yourself." Suddenly, his stomach gurgled loudly.

Sherlock snorted amusedly. "You should eat something."

"Mess hall doesn't open till seven," John reminded him.

"Yes, but the kitchen opens at five," Sherlock informed him.

"Only if you come with me," said John.

"Why."

"I can't be sure you'll eat something unless I'm with you."

"Eating is dull." Sherlock's stomach suddenly growled as well. Sherlock looked up at John, and they both cracked up. "Fine," said Sherlock, pretending to be grumpy. "You win."

John laughed. "Alright. Let me just run to my cabin to change."

While Sherlock was showering and getting dressed in his cabin, John went down the trail to his room. 13 wasn't too far away from 21. He unlocked the door and crept in. Harry was fast asleep, dead to the world. She probably wouldn't be awake for three or four more hours. John quietly discarded his dance costume for jeans, trainers, and a light grey Henley. He checked himself out in the bathroom mirror and tried to comb down his hair. _Oh God, I haven't even showered_ , he groaned to himself. He wanted to be clean for Sherlock, but didn't want to keep him waiting either. _Ugh, you're acting worse than a teenage girl!_ He washed his face, put on deodorant, and slapped on some aftershave. Then, tiptoeing past his sleeping sister, John went back outside.

Sherlock was waiting for him outside, and John almost moaned at the sight of him. He was wearing the purple shirt of sex again, and black skinny jeans. His hair was damp from his shower, and his skin was scrubbed pink. "Ready?" he asked, his hands in his pockets. He was smiling, to John's delight.

"Ready," John said, feeling like he wasn't worthy to be in the presence of this gorgeous monument of a man.

As Sherlock and John walked down to the dining hall together, making small talk along the way, John kept worrying to himself. _What are we? Does he just want sex, or something more? Does he even want to see me again? What if he just slept with me because he felt sorry for me?_

By the time they reached the back door leading to the kitchen, John was a nervous wreck.

The kitchen was alive and clambering with the sound of sizzling pans, clinking dishes, and shouting chefs when they entered. "Good morning, Sherlock!" called a big man with a long pony tail, obviously the head cook.

"Morning, Angelo," said Sherlock amiably. "This is John."

"Good to meet yeh," said Angelo, wiping his meaty hands on his apron and shaking John's. "I'll whip up some eggs and bacon for you, Sherlock, and your boyfriend."

John reddened at the use of the b-word, but Sherlock merely said, "thank you" to him, then gently touched John's elbow, leading him over to an empty, stainless steel countertop, where there were two barstools, one on either side, facing each other.

John sat across from Sherlock. He was still blushing. "Angelo called me your boyfriend," he mumbled, staring at his distorted reflection on the counter.

"Is that a problem?" Sherlock asked him.

"N-no, no," John stammered. "I just...you said you didn't...I mean, you made it seem like..."

"John," said Sherlock, covering his hand with his comfortingly. "Tell me what you're thinking."

John swallowed, looking up into Sherlock's crystal blue (damn, how did he do that?) eyes. "Look, Sherlock...it's no secret that I like you. A lot. And last night...was _really_ great. And I know you said no summer romances, and I'm probably not what you're looking for, hell, I'm not even really in your league, but I really, _really_ like you-"

John's nervous babbling was interrupted by Sherlock's lips quickly kissing his. He had bent himself across the table, and his hand was now slipped into his own.

"John, I must admit, I rather...'like' you as well. More than I should," said Sherlock. "More than I've ever liked anyone, really. You're kind and compassionate-not just to me, but to everyone you meet. You meet someone with a problem and you just rush in and solve it. You're terribly clever and brave."

I'm really not," John said, blushing hard. "I'm not brave at all. In fact, I'm really scared-scared that I'll never feel the way I feel...when I'm with you."

Sherlock smiled, stroking John's thumb with his own. "I suppose I'm just selfish...but I hope you don't."

John smiled bashfully. He surged forward and kissed the gorgeous genius before him.

"Here you go, gents-oop! Sorry, don't let me interrupt," said Angelo, carrying a tray. "Eat up, boys. Anything you want, I'll make it myself."

"Wow!" exclaimed John in awe. Angelo had brought them cheese omelettes, bacon, French toast, diced fruit, orange juice, and tea. "I don't think I can eat this much," John whispered to Sherlock.

John actually ended up eating a lot more than he thought - or should. John patted his swollen stomach as they walked back down the hill together. "That Angelo's too good. I'm gonna need some serious physical exercise to take that off."

"I've got some ideas."

John looked at Sherlock sharply. " _Whaaaat?_ "

Color rose sharply in Sherlock's pale cheeks at his unintended double entendre. "I-I meant dancing," he stammered, adorably embarrassed.

John grinned wiley, playfully patting Sherlock's arse. Sherlock squeaked in surprise. John leaned up and whispered huskily in his ear, "I'll show you a whole new way to _dance_."

Sherlock's face was absolutely burning now. He tried to say something in response, but all that came out of his mouth was "agzzuzzuffuzu". 

John was so proud of himself for making the gorgeous know-it-all so flustered. He laughed gently at Sherlock's expense. "You're adorable," he murmured.

Sherlock pouted. "Am not."

"Are too."

"Am not."

"Are _too-oo_ ," John sang in a silly falsetto. "So, what say you let me go take a proper shower, then we can spend the day together. Dance practice, daisy picking...whatever."

Sherlock smiled the tiniest bit. "I'd like that."

* * *

Harry had woken up and was dressed and showered, and was now brushing her teeth when John got back. " _Buenos días_ , stranger," she hailed her brother. "When'd you get in last night?"

"Oh, 10, 10:15," said John, lying on his bed, waiting for the bathroom to be vacated.

Harry spit. "I was up till midnight. Where were you?"

John reddened. "Oh, I, uh-"

"Oh my God. Johnny Boy, I do believe you laid your pretty boy dance teacher last night, didn't you?" Harry crowed.

John burned. "...it was just third base," he said sheepishly.

Now done in the bathroom, Harry flung herself onto her own bed. "When's the wedding? Can I be a bridesmaid? Are you going to name your first child after me? 'Cause you know 'Harry' can go both ways-"

"Whoa, eager beaver, slow down," said John. "It's just a...I still don't really know what it is. Somebody called us 'boyfriends' this morning and Sherlock didn't deny it."

"Then you're boyfriends, then!" said Harry brightly. "Oh Johnny Boy, you lucky dog, you. Look, I promise, at your wedding, I'll be completely sober. I won't even toast you-"

"Oh, bugger off, Harry," John said, but he was smiling, as he locked himself in the bathroom.

* * *

John met back up with Sherlock about half an hour later at the dance studio. Sherlock seemed to be dancing with a partner made of air.

"Mind if I cut in?" said John, smoothly sliding into Sherlock's grasp.

"Oh!" Sherlock seemed surprised, yet pleased by John's presence. "Yes, I'd like that very much, thank you."

"No problem, love," John quipped flirtatiously. "What are you doing, you gorgeous madman?"

I'm choreographing the end of the year dance in my mind palace. I organize the staff number every year. I usually have it done by now but I've been a little...distracted lately."

"Oh?" John grinned. "Is that what I do? Distract you?"

"No, don't be an idiot," said Sherlock, blushing.

"Oh really? So it's not distracting if I touch you here?" John nipped lightly at Sherlock's neck. "Or here?" A kiss planted on his jaw. "Or what about here?" A delicate lick up the shell of his ear.

" _John_..." Sherlock tried to sound annoyed but it just came out as a moan.

They just wound up lightly making out, teasing each other. John had just found an interestingly sensitive spot at the base of Sherlock's earlobe, when suddenly, the door of the studio opened. John and Sherlock's heads snapped up.

It was Mary. Her eyebrows were raised in mild surprise, her mouth slightly agape.

"OH, uh...hey, Mary," said John quickly. "Me and Sherlock were-were just practicing our dance routine-"

"That's nice. Sherlock, I need to know what music you'll be wanting for the show," said Mary, all business.

"My playlist is almost done. I can email it to you via my smartphone," Sherlock replied.

"Thanks." She turned to go. But then she said over her shoulder to them, "and make sure no one else finds out about the two of you. You know there's a no camper-staff fraternization policy." Then she was gone.

John sighed with relief. "Is she mad?"

"A little disappointed, but she's fine," Sherlock replied.

"What did she mean, a no camper-staff fraternization policy?" John inquired.

"Technically speaking, flings between campers and staff members are prohibited. It still happens every year, and everyone turns a blind eye to it, because it's never been a huge problem. As long as it doesn't disrupt the daily routine, no one really cares. I'm sure my brother knows about us already - he has eyes everywhere."

John laughed. "Alright then. Now...where were we?"

"Let me lock the door first."

* * *

The two ended up spending the entire day together, totally blind to anyone or anything around them. Sherlock wasn't scheduled to teach any dance classes today, so he and John could do almost anything they liked. There were certain facilities John, as a camper, was aloud to use, but Sherlock was not; for example, the pool. That was no matter. There was a small lake in the woods, near the staff building, that the junior staff used for swimming on especially hot days.

"Oi! Sherlock!" called Greg from the lake waters, his silvery hair glittering in the bright sunshine, as Sherlock and John approached. It was after lunchtime, and the sun was beating down mercilessly. "Come 'ave a dip, mate!"

"Ugh, don't call _him_ over," griped Anderson, paddling around.

"What'd you bring us, freak?" drawled Sally, indicating John. She was stretched out on a towel on the dock, sunning herself in a bikini.

"Oh, haven't you heard, Donavon?" said Greg, grinning wolfishly. "Our friendly neighborhood Grinch's heart has finally grown...he's in _looooooove_."

"Grow up, Graham," said Sherlock, rolling his eyes.

"Aw, look at 'im blush!" cooed Greg. "John, I don't know how you did it. You must be some kind of miracle worker."

"Nope. Just very, very lucky," said John, punctuating his remark with a kiss on Sherlock's cheek. Greg whooped very loudly, Sally and Anderson mimed puking, and Sherlock blushed even harder.

"Alright, lovebirds, 'nuff chatter. Strip and get in the water!" Greg ordered, rolling over onto his back to lazily backstroke.

"Sounds like a great idea," said John, wiping the sweat from his brow. Then he took off his shirt.

Greg wolf-whistled at the sight of John's naked torso. "You sure know how to pick 'em, Sherlock, me lad. If I liked blokes..."

John laughed as he kicked off his shoes and jeans. Then he looked back at his boyfriend, who seemed reluctant to take off his clothes. "Love? You alright?"

"Erm, yes. Fine." Sherlock said, timidly reaching for the top button of his shirt.

"Here. Let me." Smiling, John unbuttoned it for him and slid it down his arms. Sherlock's buttermilk skin seemed to reflect light like diamonds in the sun. John smiled fondly at Sherlock's modesty and hugged him around his waist, pressing a kiss to his shoulder.

" _Euckgh_. You two should go off somewhere private if you want to canoodle," Sally grumbled.

"And you should really see a dermatologist about that mole, Sally. He'd probably advise against sunbathing." Sherlock said smoothly, rolling his skinny jeans down his long, long legs and walking away.

"Mole? Which mole? Sherlock???" Sally frantically started inspecting every inch of her freckled body.

"Try the rope, John. Loads of fun," Greg suggested.

There was a rope hanging from a thick tree branch above the dock. John took the end of it in his hands, tugged on it to test its durability. Then he tucked it between his legs, ran backwards, and flung himself off the dock, swinging into the air before crashing into the water with a satisfying splash. Anderson got soaked.

Greg was applauding as John resurfaced, blonde hair dripping in his face. "Very nice! Not quite Olympic level, but I'll give it a solid 7.5 out of 10."

John shook his head like a dog, spraying water everywhere. "Hey! Watch it!" snapped Anderson, who'd gotten splattered once again.

"Oi, Anderson, it's a ruddy lake. If you don't want to get wet, get out an' shut up," Greg replied.

John looked to see that Sherlock was still pretty close to shore, only in up to about his hipbones. John paddled over to him. "Come on out, love," said John, taking Sherlock's hands. "You can swim, right?"

"Of course I can swim," answered Sherlock. "I just generally don't."

John smiled. "C'mon." Coaxing Sherlock to come along with him, he ventured out into the deeper waters like Greg and Anderson.

Sherlock shivered as the water reached his nipples. John laughed. "Good boy."

Soon the water was deep enough where their feet no longer touched the sandy bottom of the lake, and John held Sherlock's slender form in his arms. John carefully lowered Sherlock to where he was lying on his back on the top of the water, John's arms still beneath his back, supporting him. "Look at you," John giggled. "You look like an otter. My little water otter." John gave another hiccupy laugh.

Greg and John began trying to recruit Sherlock and Anderson for a game of chicken, when suddenly, Sherlock gasped and took off swimming toward the dock at top speed.

"Sherlock?" said John.

" _Help_ _!_ " cried a little voice, and John, Greg, and Anderson gasped when they caught sight of the young boy struggling in the water. He had to have fallen in when no one was looking - no one except, luckily, Sherlock.

Sherlock managed to rescue the boy and hoist him up onto the dock. The other men in the water were in hot pursuit. John rushed over immediately to check if the boy needed CPR, but he was breathing and conscious, just coughing. "Th-tha-thank you, Sherlock," said the boy.

"You need to be more careful, Archie," Sherlock scolded gently.

"Sorry, sir. The dock was slippery and I just fell in," said the boy chokingly, still a little waterlogged.

"Steady on there, little fella," said John.

"Sally, can't you have stopped him?" said Greg, turning to the woman lying on her beach towel.

"Sorry, what?" said Sally, taking out her ear buds. Then she noticed the drenched boy for the first time and exclaimed, "oh my God!"

"This is Archie," said Sherlock to John. "He's a cousin of Mary Morstan's. His parents are regulars here every summer."

"They must be going mad trying to find him," said John. "We better get him back to them ASAP."

* * *

After locating Archie's frantic parents and reuniting them with their son, John walked with Sherlock back to his cabin for a shower. "You saved him, Sherlock," said John proudly. "You're a hero."

"I'm not a hero, John," said Sherlock. "I'm a high-functioning sociopath."

"Yes, yes, alright, but you're also a hero," John insisted. As they were about to go inside Cabin 21, John turned to purr in his ear, "and heroes get _rewarded_."

Sherlock's eyes blazed with sudden arousal, and the two of them couldn't get in the shower fast enough.

Once under the warm stream, the two groaned together happily, feeling the grime and the sweat of the day peel away from their skin. "Here, John," said Sherlock, grabbing a bar of soap and wetting it under the spray. "Let me wash you."

"Oh, God, yes," John sighed, as Sherlock began running his lathery hands all over his body from behind. Sherlock's palms skated over his chest, tummy, shoulders, and arms. "Mmm...s'good, love," mumbled John, leaning his head back on Sherlock's shoulder.

Sherlock's fingers brushed over his nipples, and a faint pulse of pleasure flashed through John, traveling to his groin. Sherlock slid his hands over John's muscles, taking in their firmness. He paused briefly to kiss John's neck. John shivered.

Sherlock's hands were on his back now, caressing his shoulder blades, gliding down his spine...John's eyes fluttered open as Sherlock cupped his arse. He felt himself harden a bit more at that. "Ooh, Sherlock..."

Sherlock rubbed steady, soapy circles over his buttocks while nuzzling John's jaw. The warm water was rushing down John's body, trickling streams of suds down his thighs, his calves...between his legs...

"Oh, God, Sherlock," sighed John, fully hard now.

"John," gasped Sherlock behind him.

John reached for one of Sherlock's hands, let it wash clean under the water for a second, then brought it to his mouth, pulling one of the dancer's long fingers into his mouth. Sherlock moaned, pressing his erection in between John's soapy arsecheeks as John sucked the clean, warm water off his finger earnestly.

John wiggled his hips ever so slightly, grinding teasingly against Sherlock. "You like that, babe?"

"John," Sherlock groaned.

"You're gonna like what I'm about to do even better," John purred, turning around. He pressed Sherlock against the back wall of the shower, kissing the nape of his neck, his sternum, all the way down his torso. Sherlock gasped in anticipation.

"That's right," said John, crouching to his knees, his tongue flicking over Sherlock's navel briefly. "I wanna make you feel so good, love."

Instead of going straight for Sherlock's cock, John ducked down to the inside of Sherlock's left knee, kissing and licking his way up. He playfully nipped at the tender skin of Sherlock's inner thigh, and Sherlock outright _yipped_. John grinned triumphantly, then nuzzled his way up the right side as well. "John, _please_ ," moaned Sherlock.

"Look at you," breathed John, coming eye level with Sherlock's cock, red and throbbing, already leaking pre-cum. His own arousal was pronounced between his legs, but right now, John was focused on taking Sherlock apart. "You're so needy for me...and I haven't even touched you yet."

"Then touch me." Sherlock's mystical eyes were not silver, green, or blue now - they were big and black with need. "Please, John, I need it, touch me, please-"

"Oh, you beg so prettily - of course I'll touch you, love."

John began nosing at the base of Sherlock's length, licking lightly along the underside. Sherlock mewled weakly. John curled his hand around the shaft and swirled his tongue around the head of him, lapping away the salt. Then, John wrapped his lips around the head, and began slowly, agonizingly slowly, engulfing him.

"Oh, God, John, _yes_..." Sherlock cried, his head falling back onto the tile wall.

 _Good thing I learned how to play clarinet in school_ , thought John as he sucked Sherlock off. _Heh heh._

It wasn't hard for John find all Sherlock's sensitive spots - all of him was sensitive, or so it seemed. John guessed Sherlock didn't get touched like this very often - why, he didn't know. How could anyone resist, to be honest? John sure knew he couldn't.

" _John_...don't...stop," Sherlock panted above him.

John's thumbs skimmed the inside of Sherlock's milky thighs as he pulled off slightly. He again wrapped his hand around Sherlock's slick cock and toyed with the tip, making Sherlock cry out, bucking his hips.

"That's it, love," John encouraged, his voice low and rough with arousal. He nuzzled the base, right where the femoral vein was.

Sherlock's back arched, his mouth hanging open. "Oh my _God_..."

"Not quite," said John, smirked. "But I'm flattered." Then he went back to deep throating Sherlock.

"Unh!" Sherlock's fingers threaded into John's wheat-colored hair. John swallowed around him again and again and again. Sherlock was thick and pulsating in his mouth, his hips shaking with the effort not to thrust forward. John could detect the first globs of come. Sherlock was close. "Come on, love," he gasped, pulling off Sherlock. "Fuck my throat. Come in my mouth." He swallowed Sherlock back down, sucking hard, encouraging Sherlock to push his hips forward.

Sherlock was chanting his name like a prayer, taking John's mouth with abandon. Then he tensed up, and spilled hard into him. "Oh God...oh _God_..."

John pulled away, the last of Sherlock's come a trail of dribble at the corner of his mouth. Sherlock, still trembling slightly after his crisis, knelt on the ground before him, pressing his lips to John's, cleaning it away. "J-John...let me do something for you," Sherlock breathed, reaching for his erection.

"No, no," said John, gently coaxing him away. "Not yet. There's something I want to do. First, let's get out of the shower." The water was cooling anyway, causing John to wilt slightly. Sherlock nodded, reaching up to turn off the faucet. John stood up, gathering Sherlock in his arms, carrying him like a bride. Sherlock wrapped his legs around John's hips, his arms draped around his neck. Their bodies dripped water on the floor as they came into the bedroom, kissing deeply. John carefully laid Sherlock down on the bed, then sat back, gazing at Sherlock, his damp skin shining in the dim light, his curls matted and frizzy.

Sherlock flushed under the attention. "What are you staring at?" he mumbled.

John smiled. "You. You're beautiful." He leaned down, kissed Sherlock on the lips once, then climbed off of the bed.

"Where are you going?" Sherlock asked, craning his neck.

"Just getting something." John found his jeans discarded on the floor outside the bathroom doorway. He dug into his pockets until he found what he'd smuggled out of his duffel this morning when Harry wasn't looking. Then he came back to the bed and leaned over the long limbed dancer spread out beneath him on the sheet like a blooming flower. John leaned down once more to kiss Sherlock deeply. Sherlock's lips parted beneath his immediately, and John slid his tongue inside. Sherlock sighed dreamily, still feeling warm and relaxed and lovely from his climax. He buried his long slender fingers in John's damp hair as they kissed.

John's hands skated down his body, touching and stroking sensitive patches of skin. Sherlock shivered with delight. His cock was beginning to show some interest. Sherlock felt John pry a pillow from beneath his head. " _Umph_ \- lift up, love."

Sherlock wasn't quite sure what was happening as John coaxed his hips upward to slide the pillow beneath his bum (mostly because his brain was fogged by oxytocin). But the pieces of the puzzle  _definitely_ came together as Sherlock felt a slick finger probe at his entrance.

Sherlock made an undignified noise, and John broke off the kiss abruptly. "What's the matter? Love?" John asked.

"Were you...did you just...were you trying to..."

John flushed. "Oh. Oh God. You don't want to...oh, God, I'm sorry, Sherlock. We don't have to, I should've asked, I'm so sorry-" He began pulling away.

"N-no, no," Sherlock stammered, pulling John back. "I...I...I'm not..."

"Really, love, it's okay, we can just kiss or whatever, whatever you want-"

Sherlock was turning absolutely scarlet. "No!" he finally managed to say, a bit louder than he meant to. "I mean, I...I just...I..."

"Sherlock?" said John gently. "What is it?"

Sherlock seemed to be struggling for the words. John quellingly ran his hands through his curls. " _Breathe_ , Sherlock."

Sherlock did as he was told. John found his hand and held it, stroking the pad of his thumb over the first dorsal interosseous muscle. "Sherlock. You can tell me anything. I won't be angry with you if you don't want to have sex with me."

Sherlock couldn't meet his eyes. "It's not that I don't _want_ to," he finally said.

John waited.

Sherlock swallowed. "I just...haven't."

John blinked. "Haven't...what?"

Sherlock looked away.

Then it finally clicked with John.

"You haven't had sex?"

Sherlock shook his head tightly.

"With...anyone?"

Sherlock shook his head again.

"...oh," said John, quietly surprised.

Well, it made sense. Sherlock was just so _sensitive_. Now John knew. It was because he wasn't used to being touched that way.

Sherlock looked... _ashamed_ almost. "I suppose you think I'm a freak now."

"No, no, no-no-no," said John quickly. "I don't. It's fine, Sherlock, really. You don't have to be embarrassed."

"I've just never...felt that way. About anyone," Sherlock clarified.

"Okay. Well, maybe you're...asexual? Maybe you're just not sexually attracted to anyone," John suggested.

"But I'm sexually attracted to you," Sherlock mumbled, looking away shyly.

"Well, maybe you're demisexual. It's like asexual, but first you have to have an strong connection with someone to want to have sex with them," reasoned John.

Sherlock thought for a moment, then nodded slowly. "Yes. I think that sounds like me."

John nodded. "Okay. So...that's that." He grabbed a tissue from the box beside the bed and began wiping the lube off his fingers.

Sherlock watched him, bemused. "What are you doing?"

"Well, we're not having sex, obviously," said John.

Sherlock looked...disappointed?

"...you don't want to have sex with me?" he asked in a tiny voice.

John laughed good-naturedly. "More than anything, love. But your first time should be special."

Sherlock reached up, cupped his face, and pulled him down into a kiss. John pulled back, his face contorted into a question mark.

"You are special," Sherlock told him softly. Then he kissed him again.

John kissed him back, understanding, but not believing.

"Take me, John," said Sherlock. "Fuck me, make love to me. I want you."

John licked his lips nervously.

"I want you to be the one."

A small, wobbly smile grew upon John's face. He nodded. "We'll take it slow," he promised.

John re-slicked his fingers. He settled himself over Sherlock. "Just relax," he whispered, kissing him deeply. Sherlock seemed to melt into him. His legs spread as John reached between them, under his balls, past his perineum, finally locating that tight wrinkle of skin. John carefully massaged the area till it was fairly pliant. Then he dared to push the finger inside. Sherlock whimpered, tensing up.

" _Relax_ ," John murmured, kissing his neck. He pushed further and further till Sherlock finally loosened up around him. "Good Lord, you're tight, love," John commented, worrying about seriously hurting Sherlock. He was sort of...well-endowed, as his partners had often commented. He was going to have to be extremely careful.

"I'm going to two, love. Let me know if it hurts."

John squeezed in his middle finger along with his index and painstakingly stretched and scissored inside his partner. Sherlock made some quiet noises of discomfort, but remained valiantly silent otherwise.

 _Damn_ , John scolded himself. _I should've offered to bottom. Too late now..._

John's erection was pretty insistent now. If he didn't hurry up, he might just make a mess all over Sherlock's sheets. Then again, if he didn't take his time with preparing Sherlock, he could hurt him. Which was something John absolutely refused to do. Sherlock on the other hand was fairly flaccid. But that was about to change.

"Oh!" Sherlock squeaked as John's questing fingers delved deep, making contact with a bundle of nerves. His cock twitched in response. "Oh, John..." he sighed, his entire body going slack.

"Feel good, love?"

"Oh, _yes_...please, again..."

John continued to stroke just there, Sherlock mewling like a kitten. John was soon able to fit in three fingers, then four. He wanted to be absolutely sure there was no possibility of him hurting Sherlock.

"John," Sherlock choked. "I'm ready. Now. Please."

"Yes, love." John slowly removed his fingers, making Sherlock whimper. He reached for the condom packet lying on the table and tore it open with his teeth. They probably didn't need it; John was clean and Sherlock obviously didn't have anything. Still, it never hurt to be cautious.

Sherlock watched him. "Do you want me to do that?" he asked.

John laughed bashfully as he rolled the rubber onto himself. "I think if you touched me now it would all be over." It really was a credit to his military discipline training that he hadn't already come. He squeezed some more lube into his hand and bit his lip hard as he spread it onto his length. It was a slight relief to his throbbing erection to touch himself, even just a little bit.

Sherlock was looking at John's prick, worrying his bottom lip nervously.

John looked at him. "Sorry," he mumbled. "I'm a little...bigger than average."

Sherlock nodded wordlessly, his eyes blown open. John smiled endearingly. It reminded him of the first time he was with a girl, or his first boyfriend, James. They had both looked at him with trepidation about John's size.

John touched Sherlock's face gently. "We don't have to do this," he offered, one last time.

Sherlock shook his head. "I want to. I want you."

John smiled. "I want you too." He kissed Sherlock's forehead, his cheeks, then his lips as got into position.

The tip of his cock brushed Sherlock's entrance. Sherlock's long dancer's legs were folded over John's hips. They breathed deep as John finally pushed into Sherlock.

Sherlock was tight, so tight, and hot around John. "Oh Jesus," gasped John.

Sherlock made a high pitched whining noise.

"Are you okay?" John asked.

"Yes, for God's sake, keep _going_."

John moaned as he pressed himself deeper in. "Oh, God, Sherlock, so good-"

"Closer...closer, please... _ahhh_ ," Sherlock groaned as John reached that wonderful spot.

John was finally all the way in, sheathed completely in Sherlock's snug heat. "Oh God," he sighed again, laying his face on the pillow beside Sherlock's ear. Sherlock's arms came up around him, and they clung to each other, trembling with desire like teenage boys.

"John," Sherlock moaned. " _Move._ "

John kissed those two little chestnut colored freckles by Sherlock's earlobe and rolled his hips. Sherlock made a happy noise.

John was happy to just lie there and gently roll into Sherlock while the other man got accustomed to the feeling of him inside him, nuzzling his neck and jaw. He rubbed up against that spot, making Sherlock make the most wonderful noises of bliss. "That's it, lovely," John purred into his ear, nibbling the curve of it.

"Oh, God, John, _please_..." Sherlock's cock was straining, trapped under John's shifting abdomen, achingly hard and leaking now.

John pulled out and thrust back in, and they both moaned simultaneously. "Again," said Sherlock. John thrust. "Again." Thrust. "A _gain_."  _Thrust._ "Oh, John..."

John fucked him steadily and deeply, and roughly 45 seconds later, Sherlock was coming, open mouthed and almost sobbing in ecstasy. His muscles contracted around John, and the ex-soldier finally came as well, gasping the dancer's name. He slumped on top of the other man, burying his face in the crook of his neck.

It had been very slow, far too drawn out, and they'd finished too soon for John's liking.

It'd been absolutely perfect.

Sherlock was breathing hard. "Well...I can certainly see what everyone's always waxing ecstatic about."

John giggled into Sherlock's skin, high pitched and out of breath. "I love you."

John felt Sherlock go still beneath him.  _Oh, shit. Way to go, Watson._

John quickly looked up at Sherlock. Sherlock was staring at him, shocked. John was so close he could find flecks of gold in his green irises.

"What did you say?" Sherlock breathed.

John grew solemn. He'd probably just ruined everything. Sherlock would throw him out of his bed and never speak to him again. "I said I love you," John sighed.

Sherlock's eyebrows scrunched together in confusion. "Are you making fun of me?"

"What? No!" said John. "I...I love you."

Sherlock blinked at him.

"I'm _in_ love with you," John clarified.

Sherlock tore his eyes away. "No one falls in love in a week. Not with me."

John stared at him, with his inky curls and snow white skin and mystical eyes and Michaelangelo-sculpted body and exquisite mind and beautiful soul. "I have," he said softly.

Sherlock's eyes flicked back to him. They seemed glassy. His lips parted, and he said a quivering voice, "I love you too."

"You don't have to say if you don't feel it," John said sadly, but kindly.

"No, no, you don't understand," said Sherlock, sitting up. "I love you. In every sense of the word. I have ever since you first spoke to me, befriended me, accepted me for who I was. Not getting angry or-or annoyed like everyone else. You were so caring and loyal and I'd never known anyone like that. I thought surely I couldn't possibly be special to you." Sherlock tenderly cupped John's face. "You are an absolute miracle, John Watson," he whispered earnestly.

"I'm really not," John said. "I'm not special. Not like you are."

"But you are," insisted Sherlock. "Remarkable and amazing and-and-and perfect in every way." Sherlock lay back down next to John. "And I am humbled that as great a man as you could choose as unworthy a wretch like me as your companion."

John wound his arms around his bony form, holding him tight. "Don't say that. You are _not_ unworthy, of me, of anything. You deserve so much, Sherlock Holmes. You are...you're some kind of wonderful."

Sherlock laid a kiss on his lips, and John passionately reciprocated. "So..." Sherlock said, shyly tracing John's lips with his fingertips. "If you're too good for me and I'm too good for you..."

John smiled and kissed the tip of his nose. "Then what can we _deduce_ about us?"

 _Eliminate the impossible and whatever remains, however improbable, must be the_ _truth_. "Then we must be perfect for each other," Sherlock answered with a smile.

"No shit, Sherlock."


	6. He's Like The Wind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Book Of Mormon voice* Now comes the part of our story that gets a little bit sad. It was originally a whole lot sadder. Moriarty was going to force Sherlock into breaking John's heart. But I didn't want it to be that sad. So you have this. But I swear to God, the last chapter is so happy! Please don't hate me!

The days turned into weeks. John was floating on cloud nine. He’d never felt this way before, for anyone at all. Sherlock encapsulated his every waking moment. His untamable brunette locks were the first thing John thought of in the morning, and his piercing eyes were his last thoughts as he was drifting off to sleep. And even in his dreams, he was sweetly haunted by the images of his gorgeous lips, his deft fingers, his pristine skin, the branch of his throat, his slender hips, the rich baritone of his beautiful voice, his miles and miles of limb, the arch of his back…

But it was more than just his looks or the sex. John genuinely liked Sherlock was a person. They were friends as well as lovers. Sherlock seemed like an ice prince when you met him, mostly likely to win Asshole Of The Year award, but when you tore down those ivory walls, there was a gorgeous mind, a kind spirit, a loving heart. Sherlock was steel and velvet, brusque and delicate, infrangible and vulnerable; a whole package of contradictions in the most pulchritudinous of wrapping. And John’s heart had been utterly stolen by him.

They were several weeks into the summer-almost two months had passed. John was thinking ahead to the end of term, when camp would be closing down and fall would be coming, only a couple of short weeks from now. He wondered what would become of him and his tall, dark, and handsome genius. What did Sherlock do when not teaching dance at his family’s summer camp? Where did he live? Could he and John still see each other? Maybe Sherlock wouldn’t even want to see him after this summer was over.

But neither of them were addressing the elephant in the room. Both John and Sherlock seemed determined to live in the present, not thinking of Mycroft or Moriarty or anything that might force them apart. It was night time, and they were lying together on a sheet on the tennis courts, gazing up at an inky blue blanket of stars. John was telling Sherlock all he knew about them, having had an interest in astronomy since he was a wee lad.

“See, over there is the North Star – you can tell because if you watch the sky long enough, the rest of the stars look like they’re moving, but the North Star doesn’t, because it’s right over the top of the Earth’s axis. And over there…that’s the Little Dipper. See the cup? And those three stars make up the handle. There’s a Big Dipper too, over that way, probably on the whole other side of the Earth. You’ll never see them together in the same sky.”

“What’s that star?” Sherlock asked, pointing at one particularly bright point in the twinkling pantheon above them.

John squinted. “I b’lieve that’s Venus, love. Not a star.”

Sherlock pouted. “How can you tell?”

“Stars twinkle. Planets don’t.” John smiled, pleased that for once he could teach Sherlock something.

“Hmph…well, what about that cluster of stars over there next to the Moon?”

“Oh, that? That’s…” John grinned wickedly. “That’s one of my favorites, actually. It’s the constellation of the lover of Artemis, the God of the Moon.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Artemis was a god _dess_ , John. And she didn’t have a lover, she was an eternal maiden.”

“No, no, everyone just _thought_ Artemis was a girl because he was such a pretty boy. He had skin like snow that lit up the black sky, soft messy curls as dark as night, and eyes that changed color as often as the Moon changed shape.”

Sherlock blushed. John grinned and continued. “And yeah, Artemis was a virgin alright, but don’t be fooled – he _loved_ cock.” Sherlock blushed even harder.

“But only not just any old cock, oh no, not for Artemis. Only the best and the _biggest_ prick would do for him – he was a real size queen.”

“He was not!” Sherlock sputtered bashfully, bright red.

“Oi, who’s telling this story, you or me?” John grinned toothily. “Now, where were we? Oh, yeah. So, one day, Artemis came to Earth. And he met this... _gladiator_. Oh, didn’t I mention? Artemis had a thing for warriors.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“The gladiator wasn’t much to look at, really. Short, bit pudgy in the middle. But he was fairly strong, and had the dirtiest mouth in all the land. But men and maids alike were in awe of him for one reason and one reason only.” John scooched closer to Sherlock to whisper lewdly in his ear. “ _He had a gigantic dick_.”

“Oh my God-” Sherlock was covering his face, rolling away from John, tearing up at the attempt not to laugh.

“It was _colossal_ ,” John continued on, having quite a bit of fun. “Absolutely _enormous_! Architects would use it as a life size model for when they were erecting columns. Poets waxed ecstatic about it in their writings, racking their brains for a fitting metaphor for its immensity. Some even swore that it was bigger than the manhood of mighty Zeus himself. Artemis simply had to have it.

“So, Artemis and the gladiator fell madly in love, and the god took the gladiator with him into the heavens, and immortalized him as a constellation, so they could spend eternity together. By night, they were looking down on the mortals, watching over them. And during the day, when the sun ruled the sky and hid them from view…they fucked like bunny rabbits.” John spooned up to Sherlock, pluckily kissing his cheek. “The end.”

Sherlock tried to glare at him, but couldn’t keep from snickering. He and John shared a laugh, the short army doctor curled up around the gangly madman. John kept an arm curled around Sherlock’s waist, nestling his round cheek alongside Sherlock’s sharp one. Sherlock allowed himself to melt into John’s grasp, as if he belonged there. John was happy to accommodate.

“You’re wrong, you know,” said Sherlock, when they’d fallen quiet again.

“‘Bout what, love?” John murmured, tracing his finger along Sherlock’s jawline.

“Yourself,” Sherlock replied. “You’re not some grouping of stars in the sky – you’re the sun. Warm. Golden. Lovely. Encouraging life. Bringing all those you touch happiness and vivacity. Illuminating me in your brilliance. In short…” Sherlock turned over in John’s arms to gaze at him. “My conductor of light.”

John stared at him in wonder. He tenderly brushed back one of Sherlock’s stray curls. Then he cupped the dancer’s face and slowly brought their lips together in a kiss. They stayed like that for a long time. Then they just laid together, in the dark, under their blanket of stars.

“Hey, Sherlock,” said John after some time had passed.

“Yes, John?”

“You know what my favorite planet of all is?”

“What’s that, love.”

“…Uranus.”

Sherlock kicked him. Then they burst into laughter all over again.

It was perfect. Like a dream.

Then it all went to hell.

* * *

And the devil itself came in the form of one Irene Adler.

She cornered Sherlock one morning outside the dining hall. "So. You're the famous dance instructor I've heard so much about. Mmm." She leered at him. "I may be interested in some _private_ dance lessons. You understand my meaning, don't you, clever boy?"

Sherlock was unmoved. "I'm afraid I don't. Nor do I want to. If you'll excuse me-"

"Oh, perhaps I can sweeten the deal." Irene pulled a small stack of cash from her handbag. She fanned it in front of her. Stroked his cheek with it. "Money is no object to me, dear."

"That's one thing we have in common. Most likely the only thing. Again, not interested. Good morning."

Sherlock tried again to leave, but Irene grabbed him by his shirt collar and tried to drag him into a kiss, but Sherlock managed to put his hand between their lips, and Irene's blood colored lipstick left an imprint on his palm. Irene pulled back in disappointment.

Sherlock glared at her with his piercing eyes. "You identify as homosexual, but recently your longtime lover left you after discovering your habitual adultery. As a subconscious act of spite, you decided to seduce a man to reestablish your desirability. You offer potential partners cash, however, which implies you haven't had much luck as of late, and that information paired with that particularly whorish shade of lipstick, for an outdoor summer camp in eight o'clock in the morning, you're desperate for congress. I _abhor you_ ," Sherlock hissed in her face.

Irene slapped him, her eyes bright with embarrassed fury. She turned and tramped away angrily. Sherlock, unfazed by the encounter, headed off for the studio.

Irene stomped angrily up the stairs of the deck of the dining hall. "Devastating dismissal, kitten," said an oily voice.

The irate woman looked up. Jim Moriarty was standing with his shoulder leaning against the doorframe of the dining hall, in his server's uniform, his hands nonchalantly stuck in his pockets.

Irene glared at him. "I'll have you fired if you so much as breathe a word of what you've just seen," she spit.

"Relax," said Jim, holding up his hands as a sign of good faith. "I offer an alliance."

"An alliance? With you? Who are you, anyway?"

"Don't you know?" Jim smirked. "I'm James Moriarty. I'm known as the Napoleon of dance."

Irene snorted. "I have no interest in dancing with you."

Jim wrinkled his nose. "You're not exactly my type either, babycakes. I mean a collaboration to knock that precocious little dancer down a peg or two."

Irene crossed her arms. "I'm listening."

Jim smiled unpleasantly. "You see, His Nibs is an old rival of mine. Lately, he's become something of a nuisance. I have a plan to relocate Sherlock Holmes from the frying pan to the fire. And then, princess, he will _buuuuuurn_."

Irene stared at him for a second suspiciously. Then, slowly, her sanguine lips formed into a wicked smirk. "How can I be of assistance?"

* * *

"...five, six, seven, eight, watch your form, Philip, five, six, seven, eight, one, two, _left_ turn, Gavin!" Sherlock directed.

"It's Greg!" shouted the silver haired concierge.

The staff was rehearsing the number Sherlock had choreographed for the end of summer show. Molly was supervising the practice with Sherlock. She was now getting around on crutches. Soon she'd be walking normally. The doctors had estimated that she'd be dancing again in three months if she was lucky. "Your steps are genius, Sherlock!" Molly told him.

 "Is there any other way, Molly?" grinned Sherlock triumphantly.

The door to the studio opened from the outside, and John stuck his blonde head inside the room. Sherlock spotted him. John winked cheekily. Sherlock grinned and turned off the music. "That's enough rehearsal for today. Keep up the progress," he announced to the class.

"Aw, don't release us yet!" groaned one of the lifeguards - Dimmock. "It's air conditioned in here. It's like heaven!" Several folks laughed as they made their exit.

Greg clapped John on the back as he was leaving. "That berk's never issued a single compliment to anyone as long as I've known him without an undertone of condescension. Not until you. Whatever you're doing, keep doing it."

"I think you hit the nail on the head, Greg," said John smugly.

Greg groaned. "Gaaaah, I didn't need to know that."

John laughed as Greg let himself out. "Catch you later, GL."

Sherlock came across the room to him. John placed his hands on Sherlock's pronounced hips. "Hey, you," he said, grinning playfully. "How's my gorgeous lover today?"

"The same as I was an hour ago when we had breakfast together," said Sherlock, trying not to sound amused with his ridiculous flirt of a boyfriend.

"Yeah, but when we're apart, an hour stretches on like years and years and...what's this?" John had taken Sherlock's hand to kiss his fingertips, but he had spotted a strange red smudge in the center of his palm. It looked suspiciously like-

"Oh!" said Sherlock, flipping his hand over to see the offending mark. "Um, that's...it's a long story."

John studied him curiously as the dancer turned away to go to his dance bag. Sherlock retrieved a travel package of Wet Wipes and cleaned off his palm.

"Sherlock..." John began slowly. "I know _lipstick_ when I see it."

Sherlock froze. "It's not what you think."

"Okay. So someone _didn't_ kiss you on the hand?"

Sherlock bit his lip. "Okay. It's exactly what you think."

"Aaaaand...why was someone kissing your hand?"

"Well she was aiming for my mouth."

John blinked. "Sherlock, why didn't you tell me?"

"I didn't see how it was your business."

"Some bird was trying to kiss my boyfriend, and it's 'none of my business'?"

"John, it obviously wasn't a mutual sentiment; you know perfectly well I'm gay," said Sherlock. "And happily settled in a relationship with you."

"That's not the point. Sherlock, I don't think you were _cheating_ on me or anything. I'm not that kind of guy, swear to God. But if some lady was trying to kiss you, I should know about it!"

"You're letting emotion cloud your train of thought, John."

"Bloody Goddamn right I am!" said John. "Does this happen a lot to you? People just randomly trying to kiss you?"

"Actually she was trying to get me to have sex with her-"

 John squawked in indignant disbelief.

"-but to answer your question, no, it doesn't happen on a regular basis. People hit on me, you yourself are a prime example, but the woman this morning was unorthodoxically forward."

"I don't know how you can be so calm about this, Sherlock!" John shouted.

"I don't know how you can work yourself up so over nothing," Sherlock replied placidly.

"Because what if someday someone comes along and flirts with you and you fall madly in love with them and decide they're the only one for you or something!"

Sherlock smiled ruefully. "Too late."

John paled. "T-too...late? What does that mean? It's already happened?"

"Of course it has."

John's shoulders dropped in a heartbroken slump. How could Sherlock be so...so heartless?! "When were you going to tell me?"

"I did, seven weeks, four days, 16 hours, and..." Sherlock consulted his watch. "13 minutes ago, right after we made love for the first time."

John blinked. "Oh." He turned red. "Oh."

Sherlock's cupid bow-shaped lips twitched amusedly. "Oh," he repeated.

John sheepishly looked up at Sherlock, wearing a shit-eating grin. "Guess that was kind of-"

"Idiotic? Yes. Don't worry. I still love you." Sherlock smiled like the smug bastard he was.

"You're a cock," John said, as Sherlock came over, cupped his face, and kissed him.

* * *

Another Thursday came along, and John and Sherlock triumphed once again at Mrs. Hudson's. The hotel owner was absolutely taken with them, and had been thrilled when they confirmed that they were a couple. "Gee, a few more gigs like this, I'll have enough money to buy another summer's tuition at camp," said John on the drive back, staring at the check in his hand in awe. It was a shame tonight was the last dance at the hotel (although John and Sherlock were invited back anytime).

"Oh no. Another summer together. Dancing, swimming, having sex. What a travesty. Whatever shall we do," Sherlock deadpanned.

"Speaking of sex..." John leaned over to briefly nibble Sherlock's ear. "What would you say to a victory lap when we get back to your cabin?"

"As if we ever do anything else," Sherlock smirked.

But there was a small party awaiting them in Cabin 21. John looked around curiously. There was Greg, Mary, and Sherlock's brother. "What's all this?" he asked.

Mycroft looked grim. "There's been a report made."

"What kind of report?" John said.

"Doctor Watson, if you don't mind, we need to speak to my brother alone; this really doesn't concern you-"

"John is my intimate friend," Sherlock said flatly. "Whatever you have to say to me, you can say in front of him."

Mycroft looked almost sorrowful. He sighed wearily. "I did try to spare you some embarrassment, brother mine. Mr. Lestrade, show them." Mycroft sat on the foot of Sherlock's bed, propping his chin on his hands folded over the butt of the handle of his umbrella, looking like the picture of the troubled Thinker.

Greg coughed awkwardly. "I'm sorry about this, Sherlock. I really am. But right after the two of you left for Mrs. Hudson's, a camper brought me this." He pulled a plastic bag out of his back pocket.

The bag was about a third full with white powder.

John blinked at it. "Is that-?"

"I'm afraid so. Bill was able to identify it," Greg replied.

"It was found outside your cabin, Sherlock," said Mary gravely.

John burst out laughing.

Mycroft, Greg, and Mary looked at him curiously. "Is something funny?" said Mary.

John scoffed in hilarity. "Seriously, _this_ guy, a junkie?! Have you met him?"

"John," said Sherlock softly behind him.

"I dunno who planted that, but I'm pretty sure you could search this cabin all day, you wouldn't find anything you could call 'recreational'-"

"John, I'm pretty sure you want to shut up now!" Sherlock shouted.

"Oh come on," John chortled, turning to his beloved.

Sherlock was staring him dead in the eye. The storm cloud grey in his eyes was irrefutable.

John stared back at him in disbelief. "No."

Sherlock's jaw was tense; he looked like he was trying to hide shame with his usual bravado. "What?" he grumbled.

" _You?_ " John simply couldn't believe it.

"Shut up!" Sherlock said, crossing his arms churlishly.

"Oh, you didn't tell your new bosom buddy about your dark past?" Mycroft said.

"And you can shut up as well, you're enjoying this!" Sherlock accused.

"Enjoying this!" Mycroft spat angrily, standing up, coming to nose to nose with his little brother. "Yes, Sherlock. I'm _enjoying_ watching my brother being accused of drug possession."

"I am _clean!_ " Sherlock hissed insistently. "I don't even _smoke!_ "

"Do you have any proof?" Mary inquired. She honestly sounded like she was trying to find the truth, not convict Sherlock. Alignment: lawful neutral.

"He could piss in a cup," Greg mumbled, semi-jokingly.

Sherlock looked Mycroft dead in the eye. "This is _Moriarty._ I'm being set up. He knew I was up for evaluation by the Royal Ballet council for consideration to be admitted into the Dancer's Guild. You know this!"

Mycroft sighed heavily. "I have no doubt in my mind that this is your old schoolmate's doing. But what can I do, Sherlock? It doesn't look good for you. You have a known history of drug abuse. We have physical evidence against you in our possession. Multiple accusations have been made-"

"By who?! Moran? That Adler woman? _They're all in it together_!"

Mycroft sighed again. "And then there's the matter of your..." Mycroft's eyes flicked over to John. "Liaisons."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Oh, for God's sake, now you really are stretching. You know we have never enforced that anti-fraternization policy! You're just..." Sherlock struggled for an appropriate word. " _Bullying_ me!"

"Sherlock, my hands are tied!" Mycroft exclaimed. "I'm sorry. Look, I've pulled strings to where the police don't have to become involved-"

" _Police?!_ "

"If you leave tomorrow by sunset," Mycroft finished.

Sherlock was stunned into silence. Then he asked, "You're...firing me?"

"You've no idea how much it pains me, Sherlock-"

"Oh, save it for Mummy's Christmas card," Sherlock hissed poisonously. "Get out, Mycroft. All of you, just get out."

Greg and Mary looked at each other, then resignedly left. Mycroft followed after them. He stopped at the door. "I am sorry, brother dear," he whispered. Then he too was gone.

Sherlock was standing with his back to John, dangerously quiet. "Love?" said John cautiously.

"I thought I said get out."

The frozen stone in his baritone stung John. The army doctor pursed his lips, hurt. He turned away and stormed out of the cabin, slamming the door behind him. He jammed his hands in his pocket and stomped down to his cabin. If he had looked back, he would have seen the dancer watching him go out his window.

John blew into Cabin 13 like a hurricane. Harry looked up abruptly from where she was reading on her bed. "Johnny?" she said.

John ignored her and locked himself in the bathroom, climbing in the shower and staying under the stream till it ran cold, and even then some.

For the first time in eight weeks, two days, four hours, and approximately 31 minutes, John slept in his own cabin, in his own bed, without the man he loved by his side.

* * *

Secrets didn't last long at Camp Holmes. Mycroft had kept the drugs out of the public information, but everyone knew by lunch that the eccentric dance instructor was being made to leave. With the other teacher physically handicapped, the rest of dance classes were canceled for summer. Molly would supervise the staff's rehearsal for the end of summer show, but everyone, even Anderson and Sally, knew it would suck without Sherlock.

"He's done it every year. It's his favorite part of camp," said Molly. She, Harry, and Greg were sitting together at the staff swimming hole on the dock, their legs dangling over the water. "It's so unfair."

"I wanted to do something, but I didn't know what," said Greg glumly. "I feel so guilty."

"It's not your fault," Molly consoled, rubbing his shoulder. Then she looked at Harry. "How is John? I heard he and Sherlock had a spat."

"He didn't say anything to me," Harry answered. "This morning he left before I woke up and went for a hike. He hasn't been back since."

"This is bullshit," Greg grumbled. "Everyone knows Sherlock wasn't doing drugs. He didn't need to be fired. Myc's just being a prick."

"No," said Molly, her tiny hands curled into sharp little fists. "This is Moriarty. He despises Sherlock, he always has. He knew this would ruin his career for good-and his relationship with John."

"That little rat weasel better pray I don't get my hands on him," Harry cursed. "No one messes with my brother."

"Sherlock was so happy with John. The poor guy. This blows." Greg tossed a rock into the lake.

Suddenly Molly's phone chirped. "Oh, I'm getting a text - it's from Sherlock."

> _I'm leaving in an hour if you want to see me off. -SH_

"Can we come too?" Greg asked. 

> _Can Greg and Harry come too? -Molly_
> 
> _Who's Greg? -SH_
> 
> _Lestrade. -Molly_
> 
> _I suppose. -SH_

Harry looked at the other two tentatively. "Should we bring-"

"He'd want to know," Molly said immediately.

"They should get to say goodbye," Greg agreed.

"But will he come along?" Molly asked.

"Oh, he's coming. Even if we have to knock him unconscious, tie him up, and drag him over there," Harry avowed.

* * *

"I'm telling you guys, he doesn't want to see me," said John, trudging along behind the trio that had found him on the hiker's trail and dragged him along.

"I'm telling you, he does," Molly insisted. "He was just embarrassed last night. He didn't want you to find out he used to be a drug addict."

"But I don't care about that," said John earnestly. "I love him. I just want to help him."

"We know that," said Greg. "But Sherlock's...what's the word?"

"A drama queen?" John grunted.

Sherlock was packing what few things he had in the trunk of his car. Clothes, dance equipment, boombox, CDs, bedsheets, and (to John's surprise) a violin case. Strangely enough, in the front passenger seat, there was a skull.

"Oh, good, we caught you," said Harry as they approached. Sherlock's eyes barely flitted up at them at all. His eyes, cold steel grey today (guarded - John had picked up on the eye code), remained on John one tenth of a microsecond longer than the other three.

"What'll you do now?" Greg asked.

"Well, stagework is off the table, obviously. Maybe if I'm lucky I'll find work with an amateur dance troupe or something. Or maybe it's time to find a new career altogether." Sherlock's voice was flat and disinterested - he was acting the exact same way he had when John'd first met him. The ice prince had returned.

"Ah, Sherlock, this camp will never be the same without you. God help us," said Greg, shaking his head. "Ah, c'mere." He pulled him into a bear hug.

Harry shook his hand. "It was nice to meet you, Sherlock. Maybe, if you're ever in town, you can drop in for dinner sometime. I can't guarantee it'll be good, mind..."

Molly, standing propped on her crutches, was sniffling, rubbing the corners of her eyes. Sherlock shushed her. He wiped a tear from her cheek. "No tears," he murmured. Molly pursed her lips and nodded, and Sherlock kissed her forehead. "Harry," he said to John's sister. "I must ask - will you watch out for her? Moriarty may have destroyed me, but that may not be enough. Molly might be his next target."

"He'll never touch her," Harry swore, tangling her fingers with Molly's.

Greg touched the girls' shoulders. "C'mon. Let's give them some privacy." They headed away, Greg and Harry trudging down the path, Molly hobbling after.

Then it was just John and Sherlock.

John would've put his hands in his pockets, if his jogging shorts had had pockets. He wished he looked better. He was sure he was sure he was grubby after hiking in the wilderness all day. Sherlock looked impeccable and beautiful as always. It made John's heart pang.

John opened his mouth to speak, but Sherlock beat him to the punch. "I believe I owe you an apology, John."

John's eyebrows shot up. He was surprised. The great Sherlock Holmes, admitting he was wrong.

"I was rude to you last night when you were only trying to be kind. You did nothing to deserve my scorn. Please forgive me."

John nodded. "I'm not mad, Sherlock. I was a little hurt, but...I understand. I didn't react that well either. I got pissed off and deserted you when I should've stayed with you while you were upset."

"No, you acted exactly right. I wanted to be left alone. You obliged. I appreciate it."

John felt as though he was speaking to a stranger. Who was this icy, formal man? Where was his sweet, warm, loving, dear Sherlock? "Love...if you think I'm...I dunno, embarrassed or ashamed or disgusted with you just because you used to take drugs, I'm not. I don't care about that. I'm a soldier. I've seen evil. I'm a doctor. I've seen sickness. You're neither of those things. You gave it up, that's what's important. You aren't weak, Sherlock, you're strong."

Sherlock blinked at him apathetically. "Okay. Thank you."

"Why are you acting like this?!" John inquired.

"I'm merely acting like myself," Sherlock replied.

"No, _no_ _!_ You're shutting down on me. Closing yourself off again. Let me in, love, please. Tell me what's wrong."

"Nothing is wrong," said Sherlock.

"Bullshit, Sherlock Holmes! I know you! This is your defense mechanism, acting all cold and indifferent, like you don't care about anything. Well, I happen to know that's not true. For God's sake, what made you like this?" John wanted to know.

"No one made me. I made me."

"Oh, cut the poetic bullshit for once in your life, ya pompous prick."

"Then what do you want?" Sherlock said in annoyance.

"I want the truth! Bloody hell, you are harder to crack than the Bank of England."

"Actually that's not that hard at all."

" _Sherlock_." John morphed into Captain Watson.

Sherlock swallowed. John was playing dirty. He'd learned over their time together that Sherlock couldn't fight the Voice of the Soldier.

Sherlock huffed, slamming the trunk shut. "Fine. This is the story:

"It was at university. I went to Cambridge. I met a man - Victor Trevor. You might say I was smitten with him. I didn't want to have sex with him - certainly not in love with him. Nothing of that sort. But I suppose you could say there was a part of me that was besotted with him.

"Vic dealt drugs on the side. He was my dealer. He was the one who introduced me to cocaine the first place. When I didn't have the money, I would...service him, sexually. I wasn't lying, I was a virgin when I met you. Our liaisons were oral mostly, he wasn't interested in men. Well, not me, anyway. I told you of my rivalry with Moriarty. He found out about my drug abuse and dealings with Victor and threatened to use the information against me. I wouldn't play his game, so he outed me as 'an addict and a whore' to the whole fine arts community. I was the best. He knew it. But exposing my secret ruined my reputation irreparably. So I dropped out of school. Mycroft took pity on me and gave me a job here at the camp. Mostly so he could keep his eye on me. I've been clean for two years. I've been trying to reenter the Dancer's Guild ever since. My parole was over and the council was considering letting me back into the community. But now it's all ruined for good."

"I'm sorry, Sherlock," said John. "I really am. It's not fair."

"No," said Sherlock. "But it's the way it is."

"Don't just throw in the towel, Sherlock. You've got to fight him. I'll help you."

Sherlock smiled. "I love that about you. That you want to help everyone. Your perspicacity. I hope you never lose that quality."

John frowned up at him. "You're giving up, aren't you."

Sherlock merely stepped forward and pressed a kiss to John's forehead. "To the very best of times, John."

Then he climbed in his car and pulled away. John watched him go until his car disappeared into the sunset.

 _I feel his breath in my face._  
_His body close to me._  
_Can't look in his eyes._  
_He's out of my league._  
  
_Just a fool to believe_  
_I have anything he needs._  
_He's like the wind._


	7. ...And I Owe It All To You

> **July 27, 2016**
> 
> _Miss you. -John_
> 
> _The feeling's not unmutual. -SH_
> 
> * * *
> 
> **July 28, 2016**
> 
> _Angelo was sick today so the food was shit. I miss you. -John_
> 
> _I mostly slept today. -SH_
> 
> _Please tell me you ate something. -John_
> 
> _Boring. -SH_
> 
> _Sherlock, go eat something right now. -John_
> 
> _Later. I'm doing an experiment. -SH_
> 
> _SHERLOCK. -John_
> 
> _Oh, alright. I've ordered takeaway, happy? -SH_
> 
> _Yes. Very happy. I miss you. -John_
> 
> _So you've said. -SH_
> 
> _You're a prat. :P -John_
> 
> * * *
> 
> **July 29, 2016**
> 
> _Have you ever been to London? -SH_
> 
> _Of course? -John_
> 
> _You ended that text with a question mark. Are you not sure? -SH_
> 
> _No, I'm just wondering why you're asking if I've ever been to London. -John_
> 
> _How did you stand it? -SH_
> 
> _Stand what? -John_
> 
> _Not being able to see the stars. -SH_
> 
> _The pollution's too thick. You have to go to the country. You could try the planetarium. -John_
> 
> _Are you in London right now? ^_^ -John_
> 
> _What are the carats and the underscore supposed to mean? -SH_
> 
> _It's an emoji. It's a smiley face. -John_
> 
> _I thought the smile emoji was colon, right parenthesis. -SH_
> 
> _It's a cute smile. Because I'm a cutie. ;) -John_
> 
> _That's what you think. -SH_
> 
> _Arse. I miss you. -John_
> 
> _I know. <3 -SH_

* * *

The texting was okay. But it just wasn't the same. John needed Sherlock, to be able to see him, touch him, breathe him in. So he moped.

John was standing out on the deck of the mess hall, leaned over the balcony railing, staring morosely into the distance. Molly and Harry were watching him from inside. "He's been like this for the past week," Harry muttered to Molly. "I know he was in love, but I thought he'd have gotten out of this funk by now."

"Has he ever been in love before?" Molly inquired.

"Once. This bloke in the army. I think he was his commanding officer. His name was James Sholto. Apparently Sholto was too afraid to come out, so they had to break up. But I've never seen him like this. John's utterly crushed."

"They were really were perfect together," Molly sighed. "I think they were soulmates."

"Don't tell John that," Harry laughed ruefully. "He's always thought the whole soulmate thing was bullshit."

"So does Sherlock. He didn't even believe anyone could love him until John. I drove up to see him a couple days ago. He was a wreck. I could tell he wasn't eating or sleeping. He was just lounging in his pajamas. Oh, we've got to do something, Harry."

"Those two idiots will let the love of a lifetime slip away if we don't, love. We'll think of something," Harry swore.

Molly blushed, biting her bottom lip shyly.

"What? What is it?"

"You called me 'love'."

Harry blushed too.

* * *

The last days of camp passed fleetingly for John. He was in a depressed fog. He was just ready to leave go back to London and his work at the hospital. _Maybe I'll bump into him_ , John couldn't help but hope. John hadn't been able to sleep nights without Sherlock in his arms. The mad, ridiculous, infuriating, genius, wonderful man had danced into his heart, stolen it, and fled into the night sky with it. There he was, glowing in the dark, with John's heart hostage, too high for his gladiator to reach.

He and Harry were packing the night before camp was to end. "Molly's really sad she can't dance in the show. She had a costume all picked out. I told her to sit with us to watch the show. Is that okay, Johnny? I just don't want her to be alone, after all. I mean, she could sit Greg and the gang, but-"

"Oh, for God's sake, Harry, would you just ask her out already?!" John said, laughing.

Harry turned pink. "Yeah. I want to. It's just...she's beautiful...

"Yeah..."

"...and talented..."

"...yeah."

"I just feel like she's too good for me, you know?"

John sighed longingly. "Yeah. I get it."

Harry smiled sympathetically at her brother, came over, and gave him a hug. "I'm sorry, Johnny. I really am."

John tried to smile back as he folded another shirt and stuck it in his duffel. "I've been through worse, sis." He patted his scarred shoulder for emphasis.

* * *

> **August 6, 2016**
> 
> _Tomorrow is the last summer show. We all wish you were going to be there. -John_
> 
> _You're the best dancer I've ever seen. -John_
> 
> _I'll punch Moriarty again if you want. -John_
> 
> _You changed my life. -John_
> 
> _I didn't know how lonely I was before I met you. -John_
> 
> _I was so alone and I owe you so much. - John_
> 
> _I miss you. -John_
> 
> _I love you. -John_
> 
> [ . . . ]
> 
> [ . . . ]
> 
> [ . . . ]
> 
> [ . . . ]
> 
> [ . . . ]
> 
> _Sherlock? -John_
> 
> _Sleep well, John. -SH_

* * *

The whole camp was gathered together in the dining hall. John was the last to arrive. He just wasn't all that eager to watch the show. He and Sherlock had had this partners' number planned...well, it wasn't going to happen now.

"Doctor Watson." Mycroft had stopped him as John was making his way to Harry and Molly's table. "Allow me to wish you a safe voyage home. I do hope you're planning on revisiting us next summer."

John glared at him. "All due respect, sir? You can take your snotnose camp and shove it up your posh, puckered arsehole."

"Ah," said Mycroft, looking unfazed as usual. "I understand why you're angry, John-"

"Do you even care about your brother the tiniest bit?" John demanded. "He loved this place. He loved the end of summer show. How could you just send him away like that?"

Mycroft's forehead flattened in annoyance. "No offense intended, but it really is a family matter."

"You want to know about family matters, mate? My sister's a drunk whose wife just left her. Now, Harry and I aren't exactly the best of buddies. She's a right pain in the arse ninety percent of the time. But she's my _sister_. I stick by her, even when I think she's wrong. I certainly don't drive her away when she needs my help the most. Sherlock can be a little shit. No one knows that better than me. But he didn't deserve you giving him the boot. That was wrong."

Mycroft's eyes shone the way Sherlock's did when he was angry. Then he sighed and looked down at his impeccably polished Italian shoes. "You have every right to think foul of me, John. But I swear, everything I do, it's in my brother's best interest. I sent him away from this place to keep him away from Moriarty. That man is soulless, and will stop at nothing to ruin him. Sherlock's already done most of his work for him. My brother is a self-destructive man, Doctor Watson, as I'm sure you've already discovered. In truth, I haven't seen him truly happy since his dancing years at university. At least...not until you. When you became acquainted with Sherlock, I knew you would either be the making of my little brother or make him worse than ever."

"And which have I done?" John asked, breathless.

Mycroft smiled wryly. "I think you were both, Doctor Watson..." The eldest Holmes's eyes turned sad again. "But he truly did love you. You were as dear to each other as two people can be, I think. And for separating the two of you, for _that_ , I am deeply sorry."

John blinked several times. Then he nodded once, very small and quickly. Then he turned and headed for his table.

Harry and Molly looked up as John approached. They gave him twin sympathetic smiles and touched his shoulders as he sat down.

> _Show's about to start. Wish you were here. I love you. -John_

* * *

James Moriarty gave C. A. Magnussen a simpering smile as he poured him some wine. "Honestly, you must come see _Coppélia_ , sir. I haven't auditioned yet, but obviously, I'm a shoe-in for Franz. I was born for that role. Well, I fit most roles. It's not bragging if it's the truth, right? Well, enjoy the amateur hour, sir. I couldn't be bothered to perform with these plebeians. Can't risk their unprofessionalism rubbing off on me."

"James Moriarty?"

Moriarty turned at the sound of his name.

There were two police officers standing there. "What is it, officers?" Moriarty smiled sweetly.

The first officer cleared her throat and pulled out a piece of paper. "We have a warrant for your arrest."

Moriarty's simpering grin fell immediately. "What?!"

"Says here you've been charged with assault and drug possession," said the officer, whose nameplate read "Gregson", showing him the warrant.

Moriarty's head whipped around, his beady eyes narrowed. They connected with another pair across the room. Molly Hooper was sitting at her table, arms crossed over her chest. She was smiling sweetly, but her eyes reflected murder. She waved her fingers at him.

"Bradstreet, cuff him."

The second officer pulled out a pair of handcuffs, turned Moriarty around and slapped them on his wrist. "You can't do this to me! I have rights!" Jim shouted. "Do you know who I am?!"

"Yes. James Steven Moriarty, you are under arrest," recited Gregson. "You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney-"

"Dear me," wheezed a bored voice as Mycroft Holmes approached, casually swinging his umbrella back and forth like a pendulum. Mary Morstan was at his side as usual. "Got ourselves into a spot of trouble, did we, James?"

Moriarty glared at the elder Holmes brother. "I know whose doing this is. You just wait. Your precious little brother will pay dearly. I will  _ruin_ him for this."

"Well, good luck trying discredit Sherlock when you've already been debunked yourself," Mycroft smiled serenely.

"What?" said Moriarty.

"Yes, apparently the Royal Ballet doesn't look too kindly on criminals, Mister Moriarty," said Mary, barely concealing a smirk. "Officer Gregson, would you mind?"

"Not at all, ma'am. C'mon, Bradstreet." The two officers led the villain away, kicking and screaming.

"I'll make shoes out of you!" Moriarty shrieked as he was dragged out. Campers were giving him weird looks, but mostly ignored him.

Greg appeared alongside Mycroft and Mary. "Blimey. Sherlock did it. He finally got Moriarty back!"

"Indeed, Mister Lestrade. It's a pity my brother chose to devote himself to the fine arts - I think he would have made an excellent crime solver."

"Well, thanks to Sherlock, we'll never hear from that bastard again." Mary grinned up Mycroft. She held up her palm.

Mycroft gave her a scathing look.

"Oh come on. Don't leave me hanging."

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Just this once, Miss Morstan." He reluctantly high-fived her.

* * *

"What the hell was that?" John said, looking off in the direction Moriarty had been dragged off in.

"Sweet revenge," said Molly, laughing wickedly.

Harry gave her a funny look. "I'm not sure how I feel about this side of you."

Molly looked at John. "Let's just say, James Moriarty won't be bothering anyway for a long, long time."

John laughed bitterly. "Yeah, great. But Sherlock's still suffering. Who's gonna make things right for him?"

Harry smiled. She and Molly shared an evil grin.

"What...what?!" John barked.

Harry put her hand on John's arm. "Don't hate me...we called him."

"You what?!"

"Oh come on, Johnny, you're absolutely miserable without him! You and Sherlock deserve to have your last dance."

"I can't believe you. You're the worst sister ever!"

"You mispronounced 'best'," said Harry, grinning.

"Well, joke's on you. Because Sherlock Holmes is never coming back here. Not for a stupid dance, and certainly not for me."

"Oh, you think so?" Both Harry and Molly were smiling like Cheshire cats.

"Yeah, I think so. Because Sherlock and I both know he's way too good for me! Why would he ever come back here just for me? He's too busy to even text me back. He would never be caught dead back here, with me, and...he's standing right behind me, isn't he?"

Harry and Molly nodded smugly, barely concealing their giggles.

John whirled around to see his amazing beautiful genius dancer lover standing behind him, his eyes the clearest blue ever to blue today. John stared at him in disbelief. "Sherlock," he breathed.

Sherlock smiled. "Miss me?"

The dance instructor was unusually bundled up for the warm August weather. He was wearing a blue scarf and a long dark blue coat with the collar popped up around his long neck. Knowing Sherlock, it must be an aesthetic thing.

"We've had this planned for days!" squealed Molly.

"Not just us," said Harry. She pointed across the room. Mycroft, Mary, and Greg waved at them.

"Damn," cursed John. "Now I have to apologize to Mycroft. Gag me."

"Molly's right, John," said Sherlock, smiling warmly. "James Moriarty is no longer a threat. We won the day."

John grinned. "It was you, wasn't it? You mad genius. You really are amazing, you know that?"

"As are you, John. And everyone here deserves to know it." Sherlock held out his hand. "Come. One last bow."

John looked at his hand, then the stage, then blushed. "Sh-sherlock...I'm...I'm not dressed," he stammered, looking at his old jeans and plaid button up.

"You look unbearably handsome to me, as always. Dance with me. Please."

"But-"

Sherlock took his hands and pulled him to his feet. "No one puts John Watson in a corner," he growled breathily in John's face.

John gulped. _Help me._

Sherlock, holding his hand, pulled him to the stage. All eyes were plastered to them. John waited at the dark side of the platform. Sherlock walked straight into the spotlight and stood at the microphone.

"Hello. My name is Sherlock Holmes. Most of you know me-"

There was an appreciate groan from the audience.

"Yes, well..." Sherlock's lips twitched in a sheepish smirk. "I have been called ridiculous...unpleasant...an asshole."

There was laughter.

"But this summer...I met someone who agreed with you." Sherlock's eyes flicked over to John, who chortled shyly, rubbing the back of his neck. "But by some cosmic miracle...he saw all my flaws in all their ugly truth...and loved me all the same." Sherlock smiled at John adoringly.

"Awwwww," sighed the audience.

"John Watson. My friend. My _best_ friend. And most of all...the man who has stolen my heart now and forever. I used to believe I was the smartest man in any room, but John has taught me about love and friendship. What it's like to be believed in. How to never give up, even if all the odds are against you. Most importantly...that there are people in this world who possess unending kindness." Sherlock paused, a shy grin plastered across his lips. "...and he's a damn good dancer, do you want to see it?"

The audience shouted affirmations and clapped.

Sherlock smiled and beckoned for John to join him in the spotlight. As John stepped into view, the campers and staff burst into even more raucous applause. John hugged Sherlock tightly, and someone whistled. John would have put his money on Greg.

John grinned sheepishly at the audience and said into the mike, "I can't take all the credit, I had a pretty good teacher."

The audience laughed.

"Wait here," Sherlock murmured in John's ear. "I'll just make sure Anderson puts on the right music. Never hurts to double check, you know what an idiot he is." John giggled as Sherlock left his side, exiting stage right.

John waited in the middle of the stage awkwardly. Then, something occurred to him - he was wearing sandals. He was going to slip and fall during their dance. John hopped on one foot as he slipped off one shoe, then the other. He tossed the shoes in the stage right wings. The audience laughed again.

"What?" Sherlock came back out. He had peeled out of his thick coat and scarf. He was wearing that damn purple shirt again. Sherlock looked down at John's bare feet. "That's brilliant," Sherlock murmured, also slipping out his nice Oxfords and slid them across stage to join John's footwear.

"No need to sound so surprised," John called after him sardonically as Sherlock re-exited.

Anderson was shuffling through his MP3 player, plugged into the speaker system. He finally found the right song and, with Sherlock's silent okay, pressed **PLAY**.

The beginning violin chords of "(I've Had) The Time Of My Life" could be heard by all. John nervously wiped his sweaty palms on his jeans. _Oh, fuck_. This was different than dancing at Mrs. Hudson's, performing in front of total strangers he would never see again. These were his sister and his friends. _Oh, God, I can't do this..._

John connected eyes with Sherlock offstage. Sherlock seemed to know what he was thinking. His eyes read, _yes, you can._

John took a deep breath and nodded slightly. Yes, he could. With Sherlock Holmes at his side, John Watson could do anything.

_Now I...had...the time of my life. And I never felt this way before. Yes, I swear. It's the truth. And I owe all to you._

Sherlock stepped back out onto the stage, walking toward him confidently. He smiled suggestively and crooked his index finger at him. _Come hither_.

 _Dammmmn_. Now John's heart was racing for a completely different reason as Sherlock placed his hands on his waist. John instinctively leaned into him, clutching his forearm with his left hand and taking Sherlock's other hand in his right.

"Breathe, John," Sherlock whispered.

John breathed, the tips of his ears reddening. Sherlock smiled at him adoringly.

Sherlock's hand slid to the small of his back as John bent backward sensually, Sherlock steering him in a semi-circle, in orbit around the dance instructor's hips. The audience " _wooooooo_ "ed. John came back up, feeling slightly lightheaded. He was nose to nose with Sherlock. One mere inch forward and John would be kissing him. Sherlock smirked at him sexily, gazing at him through his dark eyelashes. John grinned back, brushing the tip of his nose against Sherlock's the tiniest bit. Just enough that the lookers-on wouldn't notice, but Sherlock definitely would.

_'Cause I...had...the time of my life. And I owe it all to you..._

Then they switched positions, John in front of Sherlock, facing the crowd, his back pressed to Sherlock's front. John slowly raised his left arm in an arch, bringing it up to cradle Sherlock's head, and felt that familiar pleasant shiver run down his spine as the backs of Sherlock's knuckles grazed up his left side. John's eyes threatened to flutter shut, but he kept them open and locked with Sherlock's. Then John slid his left hand down, tracing Sherlock's jawline with the tips of his index and middle fingers, and brought it to join with Sherlock's right hand which was settled on his hip. Sherlock brushed a kiss across the bridge of John's nose and winked just before he spun him out to the music's pickup.

Like a kid remembering how to ride a bicycle from his youth, John automatically fell in step perfectly with Sherlock. Right leg back, middle. Left leg front, middle. Sherlock beamed at him, twirling him around. The audience was loving them.

_I've been waiting for so long. Now I finally found someone who'll stand by me._

John, holding onto Sherlock's hand, swung out away from him, then turned to where he was back-to-front with Sherlock briefly, then spun back to where they were standing side by side, Sherlock's right hand clasped in John's left, doing their stylized salsa slide facing the audience. Then they were back facing each other, crossing to stage right, bobbing their bodies back and forth a little and doing a small yet intricate, ballet-ish type step with their toes.

_You saw the writing on the wall, as we felt this magical fantasy._

Then the dance became a little more swing-ish. John and Sherlock's legs mirrored each other in a mashed potato like maneuver, their arms almost doing a sort of hand jive. Then they both spun, and repeated the step. Then they crossed the stage again in the ballet trot. Both dancers were grinning ear to ear.

_Now with passion in our eyes, there's no way we could disguise secretly..._

They twirled round and round each other. Then Sherlock took John's hand and spun him till John felt dizzy. John righted himself in the circle of Sherlock's arms, raising his bent arms above his head, bobbing his head and hips to the music back and forth.

_So we take each other's hand, 'cause we seem to understand the urgency..._

Sherlock shifted his feet in a Elvis-style move, then took John's hand again and spun him about him. The fluid in John's ears was swishing about, make him feel unstable, but John was lost to the beat of the music and the touch of his lover.

_Just remember: you're the one thing...I can't get enough of._

John resumed the dancing stance with Sherlock and they twisted together, pivoting in a circle. Then Sherlock swung John outward just once, reeled him back in, and twirled around and around with him. Then they moved in and out, together and apart and together again, their arms locking and unlocking. Then Sherlock put one hand on John's waist, John's rising to gently cup his jaw, and they spun together, gazing into each other's eyes.

_So I'll tell you something - this could be love. Because..._

They swung apart, and came back together, their faces very, very close, both breathless from dancing enthusiastically and being in such proximity after being separated for so long. Sherlock was positively glowing as he gazed into John's face. And John knew - Sherlock was absolutely in love with him. And all John could do was stare right back, because he was so madly, truly, deeply in love with him too.

_I've had the time of my life. And I never felt this way before. Yes, I swear. It's the truth. And I owe it all to you._

Then Sherlock spun around again, and John was unprepared for it, caught up in the moment. When Sherlock pulled him back in, John stumbled slightly and fell into Sherlock. They both laughed, and John stroked his hand along Sherlock's cheekbone, wondering how he'd ever gotten so lucky.

Then they were dancing once more, perfectly in sync. Sherlock had a wicked gleam in his eye, and suddenly he deviated the tiniest bit from their mambo, lightly gripping John's hips and rolling his pelvis into him ever so slightly, emulating their first dance together ever, in the staff house. A chorus of appreciative howls came from the slew of staff in the room. "Get it, Sherlock!" jeered Greg, cackling.

John turned bright red, and Sherlock smirked suggestively. John ordered himself not to pop a boner right here, right now, on this stage, in front of everyone. Sherlock would get his comeuppance, later that night, John vowed, smirking right back. From the way Sherlock's blue eyes were gleaming, John could guess Sherlock knew exactly what he was thinking.

John spontaneously hoisted Sherlock up onto his hip and twirled around with him. Sherlock automatically straightened his flexible dancer's legs, and the crowd cheered. Sherlock's as beautiful as a swan, John thought. And he's all mine. He's really, really mine.

_'Cause I...had the time of my life. And I searched through every open door. Till I found...the truth. And I owe it all to you._

Sherlock landed on his feet, graceful as a cat. He brought John's hand to his lips and kissed the back of it. Grinning, he then took a few running steps and jumped off the stage into the aisle dividing the audience, his leap timed perfectly with a dramatic trill in the music. He tossed his curly head around flashily, looking directly at John and mouthing the ad libbed " _Hey, baby!_ " in the song.

John cracked up at his love's antics. "You're a drama queen!" he crowed.

Sherlock winked, teasingly blowing John a kiss. John grinned back, pretending to catch it.

Sherlock turned back to face the audience, jumping and doing a pirouette midair. The crowd loved him. Sherlock danced slowly through the people, bopping to the music.

_With my body and soul, I want you more than you'll ever know._

Sherlock got to one knee, pivoting around, probably getting dust all over those posh tailored trousers. Then he pivoted the other direction on the other knee, then slung his head about in a circle, Taylor Swift style, his mass of brunette curls flying everywhere.

_So we'll just let it go, don't be afraid to lose control, no._

Staff members were coming out of the woodwork, joining in a group step, following Sherlock's lead like the mice of Hamlin trailing after the Pied Piper, flawlessly synchronized. Greg looked like he was having the time of his life. Even Sally was bopping along to the music. Well how about that, John mused with a smile, as he quietly slipped off of the stage onto the ground floor level. Sherlock got his staff number after all.

_Yes, I know what's on your mind when you say, stay with me tonight (stay with me...and remember)..._

Sherlock's dance chorus was ebbing closer. The music was building again. It was time. Time for the lift.

Sherlock caught John's eye. He raised an eyebrow. Are you ready, he seemed to be asking.

_You're the one thing I can't get enough of..._

John inhaled and nodded. He could do it. He knew he could. He took a few steps forward, and braced himself, posed in wait.

_So I'll tell you something..._

Sherlock nodded, backing up. The staff members parted, grinning at each other excitedly, knowing what was coming. Sherlock came running at John, their focus so trained on each other, the rest of the world just disappeared.

_...this could be love!_

Coinciding with the swell of music, Sherlock jumped and John caught him up by the hips, raising him into the air over his head. Sherlock was the epitome of balance, his arms spread like an eagle's wings. They were perfectly stable.

_Because I had...the time of my life! And I never felt this way before._

As the audience went absolutely out of their minds, John felt like he was grinning so huge, his cheeks would rip open. I'm Superman with the wind at his back, he's Lois Lane! a tiny voice in John's head cheered. John carefully set Sherlock down, and Sherlock, wearing a matching ecstatic grin, so proud of his John, embraced him tightly. John, with a burst of adrenaline, picked Sherlock up again and spun around with him merrily.

They were both laughing and so happy and so very much in love.

_Yes, I swear. It's the truth. And I owe all to you, 'cause I...had the time of my life. And I searched through every open door. Till I found...the truth. And I owe it all to you._

John put Sherlock down again, took his hands, and began dancing with him once more. Not as performers. Just as two people who loved to dance and loved each other. The other staff members started dancing too, swept away by the music. The room was buzzing with a happy, carefree vibe. The campers began looking at each other. Most of them, shrugging, got up and joined in as well.

Look at what you've done to all these people, John thought, gazing at Sherlock in adoration. All these stuffy gits with their money and their posh suits and their heads up their asses. Look at them now. Getting up to dance like no one in the world is watching. Sherlock Holmes, you are magic.

"Do you know you do that out loud?" Sherlock asked.

"Oh. Sorry," John grinned sheepishly.

Sherlock leaned forward and brushed the end of his nose with John's affectionately. "I like it," he murmured.

John smiled and cuddled up to his amazing madman, their heartbeats in perfect rhythm with the music and with each other's.

* * *

The only ones who were sitting down in the room were Harry and Molly. Molly was watching the happy people out on the dance floor longingly.

Harry touched her hand. "I'm sorry you can't go be out there."

Molly smiled ruefully. "Next year. Next year I will be."

"Yeah," said Harry, grinning. "And you'll blow 'em all away."

Molly blushed and looked at Harry. "You don't have to stay here, you know. You can go dance out there with everyone else. I'll be okay."

Harry shook her head. "I'm exactly where I wanna be."

A small, bashful smile was growing on Molly's face.

Harry laughed nervously, tearing her gaze away. "'Sides...I have two left feet. I'm liable to make a fool of myself."

"Well, if you want...I could give you some... _private_ dance lessons," Molly murmured.

Harry reddened. She suddenly realized Molly's hand was on top of hers, her delicate fingers slipped into her palm. Harry slowly turned to look back at Molly. Their faces were very, _very_ close.

Harry swallowed. "I'd like that."

They simultaneously closed the gap between them and brought their lips together.

* * *

"Ah, look at that," John chuckled to Sherlock. "Our girls finally got their shit together."

Sherlock looked over to see Harry and Molly pulling apart from a kiss, smiling at each other bashfully. "'Bout time, really."

"Well, remember, love - some people, it just takes them longer to figure it out."

"And other people?" Sherlock asked, looking back at John.

John smiled heavy lidded, brushing a fringe of dark curl out of Sherlock's eyes. "Other people know at first sight," he aspirated warmly.

_Now I (I...) had the time of my life..._

Sherlock turned pink, leaning into the touch. "John. I need to ask you something. I've moved into an apartment in London. 221B Baker Street. I was wondering if you'd like to move in together? There are two bedrooms..."

_...and I never felt this way before (never felt this way)..._

John smiled mischievously. "Why would we be needing two?"

Sherlock beamed. "I was hoping you'd say that. Is that a yes?"

_Yes, I swear. It's the truth..._

John chuckled, cupping his face. "Oh, love...it is an 'oh _God_ , yes'." He leaned up and captured Sherlock's lips with his. Sherlock immediately kissed him back.

_...and I owe it all to you!_

Across the room, Harry and Molly were cheering them on, as was Greg in the other direction. Even Mycroft and Mary were looking on with approval. But John and Sherlock didn't notice them at all, or care. As the people in the room continued to dance around them, John and Sherlock were melded together, entwined, kissing, lost in their own little world.

_I had the time of my life! And I never felt this way before. Yes, I swear it's the truth, and I owe it all to you..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stay tuned! There's an epilogue! ;)


	8. Epilogue

_Approximately one year later..._

"John...stop that," groaned Sherlock happily.

"Stop what?" John smirked, pressing another kiss to Sherlock's neck.

"John, I'll miss my flight," Sherlock giggled as John sucked on a sensitive spot. His lover had him pressed up against the wood of the front door. Sherlock's bags were sitting at their feet on the floor. "Oh, God, I hope I didn't forget anything-"

"Everything's fine, love, we checked and double checked. You have your passport, toothbrush, dance shoes, _extra_ dance shoes, hoity-toity high end hair care products-"

Sherlock smacked his arm.

John laughed. "You're gonna do great. The Royal Ballet is lucky to have you. You're going to be the best Prince Siegfried _Swan Lake_ has ever seen." Then he sighed and laid his forehead on Sherlock's sternum. "I just can't believe the man I love is going to be gone on tour for _eight whole months_."

"I know." Sherlock said, hugging him, burying his nose in John's blonde hair.

John exhaled, then looked up at Sherlock and smiled. "Okay, got that off my chest. Now, go. Be amazing. Be my amazing, wonderful Sherlock."

Sherlock smiled back, cupped his face and kissed him deeply.

"Um...Sherlock. Before you go...um. I was wondering...damn. I'm sorry, sweetheart, I'm not poetic like you. But when you get back, would you want to-" John dropped to one knee, pulling a ring box out of his pocket and opened it before Sherlock, looking up at him nervously.

Sherlock stared down at him in disbelief. _Oh no_ , thought John. _I've fucked up._

Finally, Sherlock sighed. "Dammit, Watson..."

 _Oh, God. If you're gonna break my heart, just do it quick_.

Sherlock dropped to his knees in front of John, reaching into his pocket. "You beat me to the punch." Smiling sheepishly, Sherlock displayed his own ring box.

John laughed with relief, hugging Sherlock and kissing him, overjoyed. "And for the record...yes. I will marry you, John Hamish Watson," Sherlock murmured.

"And I can't wait to marry you, William Sherlock Scott Holmes." John grinned, pressing another kiss to his lover's lips.

_The end._


End file.
